A summer night, and the heat the heat of the dog-days. The tramcars had stopped running long ago; the streets were quite deserted.

Not long since, the clock set high in the tower of St. Giles’ had chimed three-quarters; and now it chimed the hour, and wearily struck “Two.” Then other clocks also awoke to their duties, and, not possessing chimes, repeated the latter information in various keys, from far and near. It was all very sombre; and the smell of the streets very unlovely.

It was Bill’s turn to be up that night; at least, they said it was his turn. As a matter of fact, he had been up three nights running, and at least ten in the last eighteen, for this was no ordinary case, and the credit of the firm was at stake. Not that he held the dignity of being a member, much less a partner, of the firm; but he had worked for it, he would often tell, and with no little pride in his voice—“worked for it thirty-two years, come Lammas; and that wus a very long while.”

To Bill, and the few remaining, or still discoverable, like him, the firm’s credit was his; and the firm should never find its confidence misplaced so long as Bill Withers could walk on his two feet, or aid some suffering creature. Those were his sentiments. Then, of course, this Bill had a soft place in his heart for animals generally, though the softest place of all was unreservedly retained for dogs.

“They wus human; well, a sight better than human, as any one might see humans at times”;—that was the way he put it. “And there warn’t a mossel o’ doubt about it, no matter what nobody said.”

At that, his mates in the yard thought well to let the matter drop.

“That there Bill has his queer hideas abaht most things; better leave him to hisself,” they remarked, with a twist of the mouth, and passed on.

Bill had a habit of speaking his thoughts aloud, especially when up at night. He found company in the habit, and was employing his time in this way now.

“Two o’clock. Another half-hour and he’ll have to have the soup, and then a little stim’lant. That wus the orders. Let’s see. To-morrow’s Toosday. That’ll make it three weeks since the master brought un back with him in his motor, all wrapped in blankets. ’Twas that ogg-sigen as saved him at the moment. But here—he’s been fed every two hours, night and day since, any way. Well, well....”

There was a step on the cobbles of the yard. Bill looked round. “Mr. Charles”—as he called him—the head of the firm, was coming.

Five weeks before this Murphy had been taken ill. Nobody appeared to know what was the matter with him, except that he was restless, refused his food, and looked wrong in his coat. The very spirit there was in him misled others: he would hunt birds under the smallest provocation; rabbits were not animals to be given up so long as there was breath in the body; that finest of games, working to the hand, was to be played to the last day, for was it not the jolliest of fun for both, and did not his master laugh loudly when it was all over, and he skipped and barked and jumped himself, asking for just one more turn? It was only the chicken-hearted that gave up; life was to be lived to the very last minute, especially when so full of fun and happiness as his. If he flagged and was tired after these doings, it was only the hot weather: he would be all right tomorrow. So he was kept quiet for a week.

But the morrow came, and he was less full of life than on the day before. There was something evidently wrong; though advice was asked, and with little gain. His bright eyes had grown dull now, and he refused all food. It was time to call in the best opinion that could be had.

“Distemper. Pneumonia; and the heart also affected.” That was the verdict. There was just a chance for him. It would be a risk to move him so far; but it was perhaps worth it, as treatment could then be followed properly: in establishments of the kind all animals were tended with as much care and skill as patients in a hospital.

So Murphy was taken away. How suddenly it had all come about. And now three weeks had gone by; and the dog still lived.

“How’s he doing, Bill?”

“No difference to my mind, as I can see.”

“We must save him, if we can, Bill. She was here again to-day, and said the dog was such a very valuable one that she didn’t know what would happen if he died.”

“I judged something of the kind,” remarked Bill. “I’ve got a cousin, over their way: shepherd to Mr. Phipps—him as has Fair Mile Farm. You knows. He come in with him—’twus last Saturday’s market—over some tegs; and he called in here, and I do believes ’twus to ask how this un here wus. Said he’d allus liked un. Seemed to know all about un. Said as he and the gen’leman as owns un wus allus together; that he couldn’t get about like some; and that he and this dog here was never apart, and seemed to hang together, curious ways like. They’d got some name for the two of ’em down in that part—so he says; but I a’most forgets what ’twus now.”

“So I understand. One or two have been to call to ask after him, up at the office, and said much the same.”

“Been here himself, hasn’t he?” inquired Bill.

“Ay, yesterday. I told him he couldn’t see him; or, rather, that if he did, with the dog’s heart as rocky as it was, I would not answer for the result. He did not speak a word after that, except—‘Do your best’; and went out.”

“From what that cousin o’ mine said,” put in Bill, “I judge if he’d come in, it would a-killed the dog right off.” He was smoothing Murphy’s ears as he spoke.

“I told him,” continued Mr. Charles, “that two things were especially against this dog; one was his high breeding, and the other, his brain development. It’s the last I’m most afraid of, though.”

“Brain? Clever?” put in Bill—“I should just say he was.”

“—And I told him that I had never seen a dog that was easier to treat; and that he was making a real plucky fight for it.”

“That’s true,” said Bill, in a tone as if the words had been “Amen.”

“—And that he was that sensible that he allowed us to do just as we liked with him; so good and patient that there was not a man in the yard that wasn’t glad to do anything for him.”

“True again,” broke in Bill, with emphasis.—“Murphy,” he said, calling the dog by name. “Whew! Another hot day, I judge; coming light afore long.” Bill was looking at the sky.

“All against him; all against him,” returned the other. “But there, I shall be downright sorry if we lose him now.”

Bill shook his head. “See all as has been done ... and the telegrams ... and the letters, and ...”

The conversation of the two men was stopped by a low bark from the dog.

“Dreaming,” said Bill; “does a lot o’ sleep.”

“Brain,” said the other, listening—“I feared as much all along. It’s all up, Bill.”

Bill was down, and had got one of his hands under the dog’s head.

The bark came again: only a very weak one; not enough to disturb anybody near. It became continuous after that; grew a little louder; then gradually fainter.

Perhaps he was hunting birds, though it may be doubted. More likely he was working to the hand over the sunlit fields, in the glad air, with a full life all before him yet; and in the company of one whom he loved with his whole heart, and to whom, while learning constantly himself, he, a dog, had taught no end of things.

There can be little doubt that he was working by the hand. Of course he was. But the hand that was beckoning him now was from over the border—from the land where there is room for both the man and the dog, and where there shall be a blessed reunion with old friends.

The bark died away: Murphy was dead.

“Not five years; or only just,” remarked Bill.

Both men heaved a sigh.

Day was breaking as they walked away together down the yard.

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A few days later came this, written by one whose business it was to tend the sick and the suffering among animals; to whom their passing was no rare event; and who must have had many thousands through his hands:

“I am so very sorry; but it was really a happy release after the brain symptoms had developed.

“I can only say your dog won the affection of all of us here to an extent unequalled by any other patient. I think this was due to the very brave way that he bore his sufferings, his kind and amenable temperament, and his almost human intelligence. There is no doubt that this last increased the susceptibility of his brain to disease, and made recovery hopeless.”

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Two men were working their way slowly up the Dene. They were the shepherd, Job Nutt, and his second. And their dogs followed them closely to heel.

They had just set out a new bait for the sheep on the vetches lower down, and were making for home.

Violet shadows had stretched themselves out to their furthest over the red wheat, now rapidly ripening; soon they would fade out altogether, and the woods would grow blue. For the sun was touching the line of the distant hills, and the long day’s work was done.

“Why, there goes Him,” says one, pointing up at the down to the eastward.

“So it be,” returns the other—“Him and his ... Oh ah! but I was a-most forgettin’. I allus liked that dog”; and Job Nutt waved his hand.

All knew it. Contrary to what is generally supposed, certain items of news circulate rapidly among farm-folk.

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