“Yes,” came the answer; “I think I have just the dog to suit you. With an old dog in the house such as you describe, every dog would not do; but the one I speak of is a good dog, with good manners and a very gentle disposition. You know that I do not make a practice of selling my dogs, but you shall have this one for —— guineas, and I will send him along any day that may suit you.

“I forgot to say he is well-bred; Postman-Barbara. He is entered as Murphy.”

Two days later a dog’s travelling-box was put out on to the platform of a little country station, and there and then duly opened by the writer. Lying at the bottom in some hay was a poor, cringing little animal, that had to be lifted out, and then lay flat upon the platform. In such terror was he that nothing would induce him to move; and the only way out of the difficulty was to take him up, while others smiled, and walk out of the station with him.

At a quiet turn of the road the dog was put down, being somewhat heavy, when once again he could not be persuaded to walk, or even to stand upon his feet. Again and again he acted in this way, till at length the house was reached and he was deposited on a mat by the fire, close to a bowl of good food.

And this poor little abject was Murphy!—Murphy, the dog with the pedigree of kings and even emperors; the dog that had run a hare to a standstill; the dog of the happiest disposition of any one in the kennel, and that had been the favourite and playmate of the whole great company. If this was what pedigrees were likely to produce, better to make a clean sweep of the hereditary principle at once; if this was a picture of a happy disposition, better to try what chronic depression had to show. A sorry favourite this. Up to now a suspicion had been entertained that a playmate should at least be gay. It was all evidently a mistake.

“Murphy!”—Why, this half-starved-looking thing that refused to stir or eat did not even know his name. If a move was made in his direction, he hugged the ground closer than before, shifting his chin backwards and forwards on the rug in abject terror. The coast had purposely been left clear, and Dan was out with the rest of the family.

Presently one looked in, and passed sentence without more ado: “Oh, you poor, miserable, shrunken little thing. We can’t keep a dog like that—it is impossible!”

Later, Dan appeared. The young dog got up, went respectfully towards him, and licked him deliberately upon the lips. Dan wagged his tail. They were friends. Then once again the newcomer crept on his stomach to the corner of the hearthrug, and remained there cringing when any one went near. What did it all mean?

Nor were matters any better when the household retired for the night: in truth, they were much worse. The most mysterious sounds ascended from the lower floor, and grew steadily in volume. They woke one and then another, till at last they drew some one from her bed. Such unearthly groans had rarely before been heard from throat of living thing. Of course it was the “new dog,” as he had already come to be called, for he surely was not worthy of a name.

A conference was held next day as to what could possibly be done, though with the usual result that some said one thing, some another, and nothing was definitely decided on. Had the matter been put to the vote, the dog would almost certainly have been forthwith returned from whence he came, in spite of a remark from one quarter that such a course might result in something serious.

“‘Give a dog a bad name...’ We all know the rest. To return this dog is for him almost certainly to be shot—at least, I wouldn’t give a penny for his life.”

Murphy meanwhile lay curled up tight on his corner of the hearthrug, with his eyes wide open, watching every movement intently. Dan said nothing, and went his way, voting the house to be upside down.

That day passed without improvement, though every effort was made and a walk was taken in the fields: the night, the stranger spent in company, for he appeared to have a dread of being left alone. The day following matters were unfortunately made worse. It is the fate of many who are down to find themselves trodden on: the lucky meet with luck; the unlucky, more often, with misfortune. The world is full of remarkably strange ordinances; or rather, it might be said, life is replete with incidents that are often the last wished for. From him that hath not shall be taken away, not alone that which he hath, but even that also which “he seemeth to have.” So be it. No doubt, in the majority of instances, he deserves to be so made bereft. On some, however, such things come hard.

The room in which Murphy had taken up his abode was part library, part studio, and part a good many other things. A large picture—the canvas measured six feet—was being worked upon on this second morning after the young dog’s arrival; and, as was perversely ruled, it was just here that an accident occurred that might well have been judged impossible. The easel, in fact, with its huge canvas, was overset, carrying many things into limbo as they fell; and with the fate that too often pursues the unfortunate, Murphy therefore found himself suddenly buried beneath a mixed assortment of articles to which he had hitherto been strange. To add to the rest, a whole string of cattle and sheep bells, brought from various parts of the world, were set ringing, and others were dislodged; and for the moment it appeared that the dog must certainly have been killed. The only good thing subsequently gathered from the strange proceedings was that the dog had uttered no whimper. But if he was frightened before, he was terror-stricken now; and matters had therefore gone from bad to worse.

There is little need to describe what followed. On the one hand, it was judged that this was the proverbial last straw; that the dog would assuredly never recover now; and that therefore the only thing to be done was to send him back, with an earnest appeal for his life to be spared. Yet, once again, cooler judgments in the end prevailed. The dog had not whimpered. There was something in that. Moreover, by what had now occurred, an injury had been done to his already unhappy spirit, and, unless all honour had ceased to find a place between man and dog, reparation was certainly his due. In one quarter a sense of pity had furthermore been generated—a fact, though unsuspected at the time, that was to prove the hub round which Murphy’s whole future was destined to revolve. An appeal to the heart, if such once gets home, can never really fail—unless, as Murphy’s countrymen might say, the person appealed to proves heartless.

Thus it was that a sheet of paper that left the house the same evening contained words to this effect:

“I ought to have written to you before about Murphy, as also to have sent you the enclosed cheque. But, to tell you the truth, I have been so much puzzled by this dog that I have purposely waited a day or two before writing to you. I have owned dogs for a great many years and of many breeds and temperaments; but never, in the whole of my experience, have I come across any dog as nervous as this one: it is pitiful to see him. Even my old dog’s presence does not help him; and really, so far, I have been able to make nothing of him. Perhaps he may get better; but I almost doubt it. I wonder if, without you knowing it yourself, the dog has been cruelly treated. I keep looking at him and wondering, for I cannot, somehow, link this dog lying in front of me, and never closing his eyes, with the description you wrote of him. The journey would not account for it. However, we must hope for the best.”

To this came answer:

A few days later the door opened, and a stranger was announced. Murphy was on the hearthrug, as usual; the canvas and easel had been banished to a corner, and an effort was being made to accustom Murphy to the clicking of a typewriter—a sound concerning which he was evidently doubtful.

“Ah, Murphy; you’re a nice dog, aren’t you?” The dog had gone to the door, and the great figure of the Over-Lord was stooping to notice him. “I always like to see where my dogs go, if possible,” he added; “and I wanted to hear from you, as well as to see for myself, what was the matter, for this is a good dog—a nice dog: I know he is. He’ll come all right. Just please give him time; and then, if you don’t like him, send him back. He is as good a dog—gentle, you know, gentle—as I’ve bred. Why, I can assure you, I refused (mentioning several hundred pounds)—I refused that sum for a pair of his relations, only last year; so you will judge he is well enough in the matter of class.”

“Why did you refuse? Most people would have jumped at such an offer.”

“Well—I’ll tell you. I didn’t like the man’s face that wanted them; nothing else: I always like to see where my dogs go and the people they go to; and, after getting your letter, I determined to make the journey here, as soon as ever I could get the time. He’s a nice dog; a good dog—I’m sure of it.”

“You don’t think there is anything in the suggestion I made to account for his extreme nervousness, do you?”

“Well—I know now that there is. I only got to the bottom of it, though, this morning. These things aren’t arrived at in a minute, you know. One working-man very rarely splits upon another.”

Then followed the whole story. “It was cruel—cruel,” he jerked out at the end, finishing with, “I may as well tell you, I never liked the man. Latterly his work was anyhow—went from bad to worse, and I discharged him.”

There was silence. Two great big men were sitting looking at the dog lying between them. The dog’s eyebrows moved continually: his brilliant eyes travelled from one to the other; and presently he heaved a deep sigh, as much as to say, “It’s all quite true—quite true.”

If there had been hesitation about keeping Murphy before, there was an end to it now. Here was a dog—a young life—that had once, and not so long ago, been the delight of the kennel, the very embodiment of light-hearted fun and happiness; the most promising of all the younger lot, and one that had never been guilty of wrong. Send him back! Give him up! What might his fate be if he went elsewhere? Death? Look at him. Look at his large brilliant eyes. They betoken nervousness, of course—inherent nervousness, probably. A cruel injustice had been done by this dumb thing, and by one of Us. Give him up! Clearly everything most prized was at stake, and claimed the exact opposite.

Why should a different justice be the lot of a dog to that meted out to a man? Is the superiority all one way? Each man knows in his heart that it is not; that the dog is often the better of the two.

How the thoughts raced through the brain!

“Murphy?” It was his new master that called him now.

Perhaps the presence of the Over-Lord had given the young dog confidence: he, at least, had been linked with happy times. Murphy got up hesitatingly and came to his new master’s chair, with his ears drooping. He even suffered himself to be taken into this new master’s lap, though not without great nervousness.

And after that the Over-Lord rose and said good-bye.

“No, Murphy, we won’t part,” were the last words he heard as he left the door; and this was the last time the generous Over-Lord was destined ever to set eyes on Murphy.

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