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How Don Was Saved
by
Curtis and Will elbowed their way down to the water’s edge. The relatives of the crew were all there in various stages of despair, but old Paul Stockton seemed like a man demented. He ran up and down the beach, crying and praying. His only son was on the Amy Reade, and he could do nothing to save him!
“What are they doing?” asked Will of Martin Clark.
“Trying to get a line ashore by throwing out a small rope with a stick tied to it,” answered Martin. “It’s young Stockton that’s trying now. But it isn’t any use. The cross-currents on that reef are too powerful.”
“Why, Don will bring that line ashore!” exclaimed Curtis. “Here, Don! Don, I say!”
The dog bounded back along the shore with a quick bark. Curtis grasped him by the collar and pointed to the stick which young Stockton had just hurled again into the water. Don, with another bark of comprehension, dashed into the sea. The onlookers, grasping the situation, gave a cheer and then relapsed into silence. Only the shriek of the gale and the crash of the waves could be heard as they watched the magnificent dog swimming out through the breakers, his big black head now rising on the crest of a wave and now disappearing in the hollow behind it. When Don finally reached the tossing stick, grasped it in his mouth and turned shoreward, another great shout went up from the beach. A woman behind Curtis, whose husband was on the schooner, dropped on her knees on the pebbles, sobbing and thanking God. Curtis himself felt the stinging tears start to his eyes.
When Don reached the shore he dropped the stick at Curtis’s feet and gave himself a tremendous shake. Curtis caught at the stick, while a dozen men and women threw themselves bodily on Don, hugging him and kissing his wet fur like distracted creatures. Old Paul Stockton was among them. Over his shoulder Don’s big black head looked up, his eyes asking as plainly as speech what all this fuss was about.
Meanwhile some of the men had already pulled a big hawser ashore and made it fast. In half an hour the crew of the Amy Reade were safe on shore, chilled and dripping. Before they were hurried away to warmth and shelter, old Paul Stockton caught Curtis’s hand. The tears were running freely down his hard, old face.
“Tell your uncle he is not to lay a finger on that dog!” he said. “He never killed a sheep of mine–he couldn’t! And if he did I don’t care! He’s welcome to kill them all, if nothing but mutton’ll serve his turn.”
Curtis walked home with a glad heart. Mr. Locksley heard old Paul’s message with a smile. He, too, had been touched by Don’s splendid feat.
“Well, Curtis, I’m very glad that it has turned old Paul in his favour. But we must shut Don up for a week or so, no matter how hard he takes it. You can see that for yourself. After all, he might have worried the sheep. And, anyway, he must be broken of his intimacy with Ventnor’s dog.”
Curtis acknowledged the justice of this and poor Don was tied up again. His captivity was not long, however, for Ventnor’s dog was soon shot. When Don was released, Curtis had an anxious time for a week or two. But no more sheep were worried, and Don’s innocence was triumphantly established. As for old Paul Stockton, it seemed as if he could not do enough for Curtis and Don. His ancient grudge against the Locksleys was completely forgotten, and from that date he was a firm friend of Curtis. In regard to Don, old Paul would say:
“Why, there never was such a dog before, sir, never! He just talks with his eyes, that dog does. And if you’d just ‘a’ seen him swimming out to that schooner! Bones? Yes, sir! Every time that dog comes here he’s to get the best bones we’ve got for him–and more’n bones, too. That dog’s a hero, sir, that’s what he is!”