The haunted hound; (5 page)

Jonathan watched the sad-eyed dog and called to it. It wouldn't come. It would take a step or two and then back up again and sit down.

Jonathan gave up and went across the porch. All the doors and windows were locked, so he couldn't get in.

As he turned to go back down the steps he saw Mr. Worth coming along the path from the stables. The girl was right behind him, almost running to keep up.

The black-and-white hound sat in the drive.

Mr. Worth was still lean and tall, and he walked without moving anything except his feet and legs. If you looked at him from the belt up, you'd think he was riding in a car or something.

He came up the stairs and shook hands. "Mighty glad to see you again, Jonathan! How are you? YouVe grown a yard or two since I saw you last.''

'Tm glad to see you, too, Mr. Worth. Do you still go coon hunting?"

''Whenever I can. How'd you get out here?"

Jonathan started to tell him, but then decided that the train ride was something he'd better keep quiet about. ''Rode."

"You scared the wits out of my poor little niece," Mr. Worth said, grinning at the girl.

From behind her uncle the girl said, "He did notT

"She scared me just as bad. She started to sick all the dogs in the world on me."

"Aw, shucks, those dogs won't even bite their own fleas. Judy, aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

The girl glanced at Jonathan and then went back behind her uncle. "No," she said.

Mr. Worth laughed, then clapped Jonathan on the back. "I certainly am glad to see you again. It's been years since

youVe been out here. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten all about the place/'

Jonathan said slowly, ''I almost had."

'Tni glad you remembered it again. How's your dad? When's he eoming out here?"

Jonathan wondered whether he ought to say something about selling the place, then decided he'd better not. ''I don't know when he'll come. He has to work most of the time."

Mr. Worth looked at him, then slowly shook his head. ''It's hard for me to believe that there's any work in the world so important to Bill Barrett that he can't come any more to listen to hounds crying on a trail. Mighty hard."

Mr. Worth unlocked the door. As the three of them went into the house, Judy looked at Jonathan. ''That was mean," she said.

"I know it," Jonathan admitted. "I'm kind of sorry."

"All right," she said.

The hall seemed strange to Jonathan. Most of the furniture was gone, there weren't any rugs on the floor, and the air was stale.

At the end of the hall the stairs curved upward, wide at the bottom and, he remembered, narrow at the top. Halfway up there was a niche in the wall where a tall candle with a glass shade used to be. The niche was empty now.

"It's a nice sunny day," Mr. Worth announced, going into the library where the empty bookshelves went all the

way to the ceiling. "Let's leave her open to air out until sundown, Judy/'

She nodded and went over to the tall windows and began pushing them up.

Jonathan stood in the doorway, looking into the room. The huge leather-topped desk was covered with gray cloth and so was his grandfather's chair and all the other things.

But Jonathan could tell what was under each piece of cloth and, slowly, he began to see this room as he remembered it. In front of the fireplace was the long couch covered with dull red leather. The fireplace was big enough for him to walk into even now, when he was thirteen. His grandfather's old leather chair with the high back which could be put at any angle by moving a steel rod behind it stood tall at one side, and the other chairs were on the other side.

Jonathan remembered how, when he was a little shaver, his mother would let him ride on the library ladder. At the top of the bookshelves there was a little trolley track and the ladder ran on that and on two wheels on the floor so that people could get the books down.

Judy got all the windows open and they went on into the parlor. This was a room Jonathan had never stayed in much when he had lived here.

On the way out of the parlor Jonathan, walking beside the girl, asked, ''Is your name Judy?"

She looked at him, her eyes still angry, and snapped, "No."

He was surprised. Mr. Worth had called her Judy several times.

Jonathan was about to say something else when Mr. Worth said, ''J^^Y^ ^^^ V^^^ P^^^ ^hc ointment on that colt's screwworms yesterday?''

'Tes, and she's about cured. I couldn't find a one."

"Keep an eye on her. Those flies are everywhere." Mr. Worth turned to Jonathan. ''Screwworms have been terrible all summer. Most ate up all the livestock."

Jonathan didn't know what screwworms were, so he just nodded.

As they started up the stairs, Jonathan said, ''If your name isn't Judy, why does he call you Judy?"

She looked back at him over her shoulder, "Because he wants to, I guess."

She was about as irritating as any girl he knew, Jonathan decided. "Well, what is your name?"

"Judith," she said. "Miss Judith Worth Shelley."

"Oh, for crying out loud," Jonathan said, disgusted.

She ignored him.

Mr. Worth finished opening the windows and turned to Jonathan. "When you go home will you tell your dad that the house needs painting pretty bad? Course it'll stand here another hundred years without paint, but it'd be better to paint her."

Until then Jonathan had not thought anything about going home or what he was going to tell his father about coming to the Farm. Now, though, he had to think about it.

He suddenly wondered how his father would feel if he knew that Jonathan had been to the Farm. Would it make him angry, or sad, or would he care one way or the other? Jonathan didn't know, but for some reason he didn't want his father to find out.

''You might also tell your dad that weVe been having some fox races as good as any they ever ran in the old days, Jonathan. Oh, man, there're some hounds running today that are sweeter to listen to than symphony music.'' He smiled at Jonathan and said, ''Tell your dad to quit working for just one night and come listen to the music. It would do him good; take his mind off all his troubles. Make him come, Jonathan, and you come with him."

"I don't think he would," Jonathan said. "He doesn't like fox hunting any more."

"I can't understand that," Mr. Worth said. "Your dad used to be one of the best hunters in this section, and there wasn't a man alive who knew more about hounds than he did. Then, all of a sudden, he just stops."

Jonathan said quietly, "My mother was fox hunting with Dad the night she got hurt. Maybe that's the reason."

Mr. Worth nodded. "It must be, Jonathan. There couldn't be any other reason. But, you know, hounds and hunting really lost something when your dad dropped out. He had a way with dogs that was just like magic. He understood 'em, and they understood him. He could train a foxhound until it was a good deal smarter than a man and just as smart as a fox. And he could match up dogs so that the

best qualities they had came out in the pups. Particularly with Trombos. Your dad was de\doping the Trombo strain of hounds into the best in the country. Now there's only old Mister Blue left/'

''And Pot Likker/' Judy said.

'Tot Likker just doesn't count/' Mr. Worth said, his voice sad.

Jonathan remembered the hound sitting on his haunches in the drive, apart from everything, separate from all the life going on around him. Jonathan could suddenly feel how lonesome Pot Likker must be. As lonesome as he was. "What's the matter with Pot Likker?" he asked.

"No instincts," Mr. Worth said. "Dogs can't really think the way people can; all they've got are instincts. Say a hound finds a fox's trail. What makes him start chasing that fox? Does he stop and think and decide that, if he catches the fox, it will make a good meal? I don't think so. Not many hounds will eat a fox. And say the fox went by two or three hours ago. How does a hound know which way the fox was going? Instinct, Jonathan. That's all. There isn't enough scent or heat in a cold trail for a hound to feel or smell any difference one way or the other. But a good hound will always go in the right direction."

"Even Slewfoot?" Judy asked, and began to grin.

"Well, now . . ." Mr. Worth laughed. "But that Pot Likker dog is a mess. Great, big, good-looking hound; can run all night. Fine voice, too. But just a mess, even if he is Mister Blue's own son. Out of a whole litter of five pups,

Jonathan, four died of distemper in less than a week. Now wouldn't that hamstring you? The only one who didn't get sick was Pot Likker/'

''Maybe he's too young or something/' Jonathan said. He kept remembering Pot Likker and feeling sorry for him.

''He's plenty old/' Mr. Worth declared. "But the Lord just didn't give that dog any instincts. Not a one. He hasn't got enough sense to know that he's supposed to like people. You notice he never wags his tail, and that's the only way a dog can tell you that he likes you. He's always by himself, sitting there looking at nothing all day long, or off somewhere where you can't find him. He won't come when you call him, not even to eat. Even Judy, who's a real hand with animals, can't do anything with Pot Likker. Even when he was a tiny puppy he didn't like Judy to handle him at all."

Mr. Worth shook his head, then scratched it. "I must've seen close on to ten thousand assorted dogs in my life and, believe me, I've never seen one as curious or as useless as that Pot Likker/'

"Maybe he's just lonesome," Jonathan said.

"If he is it's all his own fault. I'd like to make friends with him and so would Judy, but no, sir, he won't let you come near him. That dog won't even play with the other dogs. Have you ever heard of anything like that?"

"No," Jonathan said. "But I don't believe that Pot Likker hasn't got any instincts. I mean none at all. He must have some way back in his head somewhere."

"Maybe so, but he certainly doesn't let anybody know it.

It's a real crying sTiamc, too, because Pot Likker's the last of the Trombos your great-grandfather bred. But if he had pups most hkely they wouldn't be any good."

Jonathan looked down the drive, but Pot Likker had gone away. Jonathan thought of the hound standing up, turning, and then walking slowly away, friendless and alone. He wondered where Pot Likker would go and what he would do. Probably, Jonathan thought, Pot Likker did almost the same things he did: just wander, not caring much where he went or what he did. To be so lonesome was a terrible thing, Jonathan thought.

''Judy," Mr. Worth said, ''what's the Little Bird got for us to eat?"

"I don't know. Uncle Dan. I've been in the stable most of the morning."

Jonathan wondered who the little bird was.

"You haven't eaten yet, have you, Jonathan?" Mr. Worth asked.

"No. But I've got to start home, Mr. Worth."

"Can't go home empty. Judy, you run on down and tell the Little Bird to set another plate."

"No. Thanks. But wait—" Jonathan was too slow. Judy disappeared down a path through some woods, leaving him with Mr. Worth. "I can't stay for lunch, Mr. Worth. Really. They're expecting me home."

"It'll be late before you get there. Won't be anything left to eat. You come on eat with us and you can leave chewing if you like."

CHAPTER FIVE

t

TjL ^ ft C L lonathan discovered that the

<»?3f^9jr^. J -Little Bird" was Mr. Worth's wife. She wasn't at all like her husband, and Jonathan secretly couldn't figure out why Mr. Worth called her the Little Bird. She was at least as tall as he was, but she wasn't lean and rangy. She was a great big woman, who looked strong enough to take her husband and break him into a lot of little pieces if she wanted to.

They ate lunch in the kitchen, which was a big room at the back of the house. Judy and her uncle wouldn't have minded having all the dogs in there with them, Jonathan decided. But Mrs. Worth would let only the puppies in while they were eating. At that, there were half-a-dozen dogs running around on the floor.

Jonathan had never had a better meal in his life. The biscuits were hot and so light it was hard to butter them without crumpling them up. The fried chicken was a light gold color and made his mouth water just to look at it. When Mrs. Worth asked him what piece of the chicken he wanted, he acted as he did at home, and said, ''A drumstick

or a wing, please." Because, at home, the white meat was for grownups, and that was one reason Jonathan wanted to grow up. He didn't hke either drumsticks or wings very much.

Mrs. Worth wasn't happy. ''Now isn't that a shame? I was hoping you hkcd white meat, Jonathan. None of us will eat it, and it just goes to waste. Wouldn't you just as soon have white meat?"

Jonathan nodded. ''I was sort of being polite, I guess," he told her.

Mr. Worth looked up from his plate. ''Never pays to be too polite. Now I remember my folks. Dad would say, 'Mother, you want to go to the church picnic?' And she'd be polite and say, 'Well, I'll go if you want to, Dan.' So he'd say, 'Do you want to, Marthy?' And they'd keep up that politeness till neither one of 'em went anywhere. Give the boy all the white meat. Little Bird. He can eat it and save us feeding it to the hogs."