The general company naturally viewed Murphy’s performance from many standpoints. Among his contemporaries his reputation went up with a bound, though there was not wanting a leaven of jealous ones even amidst those who crowded most closely round him. Among those a little older than himself, the best-natured commended him outspokenly and in honest generosity of heart. Others, with more mundane outlook, judged his achievement reflected lustre on the kennel, and therefore—this with a sniff and the chuck of the chin—also on themselves. A few more vowed, in true sporting spirit, that they would do their level best to go one better if such a chance as that should come their way. To these last, the puzzle was why, with such results, the whole of those present had not tasted blood; and among themselves they voted the action of the Over-Lord incomprehensible, certainly womanly, very certainly misjudged. If the young dog had gone up therefore in their estimation, the Man had correspondingly gone down.

As for the older generation, some spoke patronisingly, as if they wished to convey that the deed was nothing more than they could easily have achieved, and in fact ended by talking so much that they persuaded themselves, to their own satisfaction, that they were in the habit in their younger days of doing things of the kind not less infrequently than once a week. The moralists wagged their heads as the fountain of all truths, and asserted that such success was a very bad thing for the young. The swaggerers, who held somewhat aloof, but who had never done anything in their lives, put on more side than usual and endeavoured to carry matters off that way, oblivious, as ever, of the laughter round the corner. Lastly, there was that other class, the crabbed and the crusty, who would, had they belonged to Us, have retired behind their papers in the Club windows, but as it was, and being dogs, merely made off out of earshot, with their ruffs up, grumbling to themselves and crabbing all things.

There were some of all classes here as elsewhere. It is indeed surprising how closely the dog family approximates to the human. The same counterparts are to be found in both. We mostly hunt in packs. And if dogs are wont to bark and bite and rend, We, on our part, are often not behind in practising the same strange arts, though not always with the same sportsmanship and generosity.

As for Murphy, he took the whole matter with a skip and a laugh, as if it was all part of the jolly fun of life, and as not in any way reflecting credit on himself. By nature he was modest and shy, and if he did things occasionally that were out of the common, he never seemed to grasp the fact, invariably looking puzzled and impatient at all praise. “Never mind all that; let’s come on and look for something else,” was what he said, exhibiting in this way, perhaps, one of those traits of character that made him so lovable, and that grew to such fair proportions as he advanced in years. His disposition was happy and generous, and though essentially manly—if such a term, without offence, is applicable to dogs—there was also about him a peculiar gentleness that was exemplified in all his actions, right down to his inability to use his teeth. He was never known to fight; and, what was still more strange, bones were to him altogether negligible things.

For a character such as this to meet with harsh treatment, much less cruelty, was, if not to ruin it completely, at least to undermine all confidence. Yet this, sad to relate, was now precisely what befell. Up to this, life had been without a cloud. Of course, as in every other society, there had been the necessity of fending for oneself—of picking up a scrap, for instance, quickly, if you wanted it at all. Such things are good, and make for progress and development. But harshness and unkindness, like injustice, had been altogether foreign to the mill and all who lived or worked there. Life sped on in that favoured spot with as even a surface as that of the river, whose waters flowed sluggishly up to the mill, barring the dam, and then went bubbling down the race, revivified and having done its spell, for the time.

How it came about is not now exactly discoverable; but just at this period of Murphy’s life a decree was issued that several of the family were to be boarded out; and the next day the young dog found himself moved to the home of one of the mill-hands, half a mile and more away.

The cottage stood alone, and the family inhabiting it consisted of a man and his wife, and a daughter just finishing her schooling. Once there had been a son; but he, like many another in our villages, had gone out—all honour to them!—to strike a blow for his country some five or six years before, and had in quite a short while found a soldier’s death. His photograph hung crookedly just above the mantelpiece, with another of a group of his regiment by which he had once set much store, and yet another of the girl whom he had hoped some day to make his wife.

When the glow fell, and the bald, laconic message was delivered one winter evening at the door, the mother bent her head low; and later, when she found speech and had dropped the corner of her apron, was heard to whisper to herself, “’Twas the Almighty’s will.” Then the tears welled up afresh, as she rocked herself in her chair, gazing at the fire.

The effect upon the father was different. “What...!” he cried, as though some one had struck him. A single candle flickered on the table; his lips were drawn tight across his teeth; his fingers clutched the table-lid convulsively, and he leant across in the direction of his wife.

“What...!” he exclaimed again.

“They’ve killed un,” repeated the wife, the candle-light reflected in her staring eyes. “Seth, Seth,” she continued, following her husband, who had taken up his hat, and was making for the door—“oh, Seth, Seth—’tis the Almighty’s will, man; I do know for sure it be;—Seth, Seth...!”

But Seth Moby had gone out into the night; and from that time forward he walked as one suffering some injustice. He had always been a man of uncertain temper, but this blow appeared to sour him. It is well to remember that once at least in his life he had loved deeply.

The Over-Lord brought Murphy to the door, and arranged matters with Martha Moby, just as he had often done with others in the same way. The day had been wet; the lane on to which the garden-gate opened was muddy; the dog had dirty feet. “You’ll take care of him, I know. He’s a good dog—a good dog,” he repeated, when he left.

It was after dark when Moby returned. “Wants for us to kep the dog, do ’e? There be a sight too many on ’em about; and for what he do want to kep such a lot o’ such curs, nobody can’t think. A-bringin’ a’ the dirt into our housen too. Err ... I’ll warm yer!” he added, making as though he would fling something at the dog.

Murphy looked puzzled, and crept into a corner.

“Don’t carry on like that, Seth; don’t do it, man. The dog’s a poor, nervous little thing with we, and don’t mean to do no hurt.”

But it was of no avail. Seth Moby looked upon Murphy as an interloper, and when he could do anything to frighten him he did, and by any brutal means in his power. Even the mill-hands remarked to one another that their mate, Moby, was a changed man. “’Twas like that wi’ some,” they said. “Trouble sowered ’em, like, and made ’em seem as though they ’ould throw the Almighty o’ one side. And once folk got on a downward grade, same as that, it wasn’t often as they was found on the mending hand—no, it wasn’t for sure.”

On one occasion, after the first week was over, Murphy escaped, and appeared at the mill with a foot or more of rope trailing from his collar, for latterly he had been kept tied up. Seth chanced at that moment to be leaving work, and brought the dog up short by the head, by putting his foot upon the rope end almost before the dog knew that he was there. He half hanged him taking him back, and flung him into the house with an oath that frightened his child, and made her run to the back kitchen that she might not hear what followed; while the dog crept on his stomach to the corner, his tail between his legs: he always moved in this way now, though it is said he never whimpered.

“Oh, Seth, if you goes on like this,” said Mrs. Moby reproachfully, “there’ll be murder, and then trouble to follow: the Master is not one to put up with cruelty to any dog. Bless the man—you’re gettin’ like a mad thing. Leave the dog alone, I tell yer.” Seth had taken off his boots, and flung them at the dog before going up to bed: Mrs. Moby had been engaged trying to disconcert his aim.

That night another foot was heard on the stairs; there was whispering in the kitchen; and for several succeeding weeks, and unknown to others, the dog slept happily with the child, though not without serious risks of trouble being thereby made for both.

At the end of that time the Over-Lord called. He had been away. He had heard on his return that all was not well with the dog, and had come to see for himself. Murphy had been lying curled up on a sack in his corner, but when he heard the well-known footstep he crawled out, hugging the wall nervously till he reached the door.

“Murphy, lad!” exclaimed the Over-Lord, looking intently at the dog—“Murphy, my little man; that you...!” The dog was fawning on him, saying as plain as speech, “Take me away with you; take me away.”

The Over-Lord put his hand down and patted him. He did not say another word, as Murphy followed him out, save “It’s not you, Mrs. Moby; it’s not you.” He had a great heart for dogs, and began to blame himself on his way home for what had evidently occurred. “If the man did not want the dog,” he muttered, “he had only got to say so; besides it was his rent to him: it was not done on the cheap—that never does in any line.”

When he reached his own house, he took the young dog in with him—a thing almost unprecedented, so far as the rest of the outside company were able to recall. They judged their former companion spoilt, or on the high road to being so.

“It was all that hare,” remarked the middle-aged.

“Yes,” agreed the moralists—“success is always pernicious to the young!”

Lookers-on generally misjudge, though they claim to see most of the game.

The next morning, by strange coincidence, a letter was delivered at the mill, destined to alter Murphy’s future altogether.