The times., 1899-02-12
sTwn DOps',

1t is some time since we have had a book
so original and so charming as Bob. Son
of Battle by Alfred Ollivant Bob is the
last of the Gray Dogs O. Kenmuir fa-
nous race of shepherd dogs known to all
Dalesmen. Wise, steadfast, intrepid, 10y
al he belongs, not beside BLACK Beauty"
John Browns "Rab" or the jungle broth
ers Of Mowgli, but in a class by himself
He comes of different race from any Of
the jungle-folk, and is nearer akin to
Rab than to any other character in
literature. Rab, however, was merely
sketch in outline; Mr.. Ollivant's canvas
is crowded with figures, brute and human,
and every one is alive.
Inc story concerns a rivalry between
Bob, son of Battle, and Wulie, son of no.
body in particular. but supposed to come
OF the Red McCulloch strain: both aspi-
rants for the great silver cup awarded to
the best shepherd dog in the Dales. The
master of Wullie, a grabbed Scotchman
named Adam McAdam, has a lifelong feud
with James Moore, the owner of Kenmuir;
a feud growing partly from jealousy for
his dog and partly, it would appear. from
his own cross grained nature. There is
bit OF human romance in the book SUD-
piled by love affair between McAdam's
son David and Maggie Moore; but that is
a side ISSUE The interest of the reader is
centred on the changing fortunes of the
Iwa Dogs 1t is story that Burns
would have loved; among its scenes he
would have been at home. He would have
celebrated Ovid Bob in immortal verse: he
would have won the tolerance, II not the
affection, of that grisly brute, Willie: and
he would have been a friend to Wullie's
cantankerous. wrong-headed little master.
In spite OF his various unlovely traits
| the sympathy of the reader is gradually
attracted more and more to that thrawn
| bit OF misbegotten humanity McAdam
! With all his fendishness he Is somehow
or other very human. He is the under dog
| in the great fight of humanity and some
where, somehow, his nature must have got
| ten twist which set him against all man
kind. We come 10 feel much the same pity
for this deformed little soul that we do
for crooked and misshapen body. When,
| here and there, some gleam of kndlier
feeling seems about to break through the
churlfshness of his temper one gets a
glimpse OF the man he might have been,
and those who study humanity in books
will, in reading of his life's end, fall 10
wondering whether. after all, it is possible
TO have n clean soul in a wicked body; to
have temperament so full OF moral crook
edness and cross-currents that it is we'll
nigh impossible for the immortal spirit to
control II.
McAdam Is one Of the unique figures in
literature, and there is more in him than
seems. Abusive of his son, caustic of
speech, with a good word for nobody, vim
dictive and malicious to the last degree.
loving only one thing, and that one his
dog, who shares his unattractive qualities.
he is character who, in the hands of an
other novelist-Dckens, for example
would appear hardly human. But in spite
OF all this one sees, here and there, strange
CLEANS Of better nature. He is like one
of the impish elves of old fairy lore, full
OF all sorts of spiteful and destructive i'm
pulses, yet with impotent longings toward
good. He sings bits of the noble Scottish
war songs as such bad spirit might mis-
quote the Lords Prayer. He could have
been created only by genius.
James Moore, with his manifold perfec-
tions, does not please us half as much. He
is not especially interesting But it is
different with Ovid Bob. Why is it that
perfection in human hero proves so
wearisome, and in a dog so delightful? Is
it because the dog cannot talk?
The first picture which We have of Ovid
Bob-he earned the name while hardly
more than puppy, by his wise and sober
ways-is painted as the mistress of the
house lies ill. 1t is worth reproducing en-
tire:
Toward evening the wind died down, but the
| Hdh'S stlll IclI.
With the darkening Of the night Ovid Rob
returned 10 the porch and lay down on his
blanket. The light from the lamp at the head
OF the stairs shone through the crack of the
| slept.
The hours passed and the Gray Knight still
kept his vigil. Alone in the darlncss-alone,
it almost seemed, in the housc-he watched Ills
head lay mOtionlcss along his paws, but the
steady gray eyes never hnclcd nor droopcd
Time trampcd on leadcn foot and still he
waited; and ever the pain OF lowering anxiety
was stamped deeper in the gray eyes
| At length il grew past bearing; the hollow
stiffness OF the house overcame him. lie rose
pushed open the door, and softly pattered
across the passage.
At the foot OF the stairs he halted his fore
paws the first step, his grave face and plead
ing eyes uplifted, as though he were prayinr
The dim light fell on the raised head and the
white escntcheon on his breast shone out like
the snow Salmon.
At length with a sound like n sob he dron
ped to the ground and stood listening his tail
dropping and head raised Then he turned and
began softly pacing up and down, like some
velvet-footed sentinel at the gate Of death.
| Up and down, up and down. softly as the
falling snow, for a weary, weary while.
Again he stopped and stood, listening intent
ly. at the foot of the stairs, and his gray coat
quivered though there a draught
| OF a sudden the dcathly stiffness of the house
was broken. Upstairs feet We're running hlr-
ricdly. There was cry, and again silence.
| A life coming in; life going out.
The minutes passed. hours passed. and at
the sunless dawn, a life passed.
And all through that night Of agc-long agony
the gray figure stood. still as a statue at the
foot of the stairs. Only when. with the first
chill breath Of the morning, dry, quict-quencIi-
ed sob Of strong man sOTrowing for the help
| meet Of a score OF years, and tiny cry of a
newborn child wailing because its mother was
| not came down to his ears the Gray Watch
man dropped his head upon his bosorn and
with n little whimpcTing note, crcpt back to
his blanket.
| little later the door above opened and
James Moore tramped down the stairs. He looked
taller and gauntcr than his wont. but there was
| no trace Of emotion on his face.
| At the foot Of the stairs OVID Bob stole out
TO meet him. He came crouching up, head and
tail down in a manner no man saw before
or since At his masters feet lie stopped and
| Yhined pitiuy.
| Then, for one short moment, James Moorc's
| whole face guivcTed.
"Wcll. lad he said, quite low, and his voice
broke "sAe's AVA!
| That was all; for they an mlemonstra-
| tive couple.
Then they turned and went out together into
the bleak morning.
Another page in the book stands out in
ones memory with the clearness of mas
er-work OF the trials at which the Cup,
the Shepherds Trophy, was lost and won
| of Moore's forbearance and McAdam' S
reckless downward course; OF Bobs fear
less dignity and utter loyalty to his mas
: | ter there is no room to tell. McAdam' S
Wullie stalks through it all a grim IA
miliar TO his little masters wicked will.