The Plague Dogs

He jumped up on a shelf running along the further wall, just below the level of his two cobwebbed eyes. There followed a twinge of pain in his head as some light, unseen object fell from beneath his paws and shattered on the ground below. He wondered what part of him it might have been. Still, he could feel nothing immediately wrong. He waited a few moments to recover himself, then put his fore-paws on the narrow, dirty sill and looked out through his right eye.

It was just as he had expected. He was looking at the expanse of grass and heather outside the wall down which he and Rowf had sniffed their way before he had jumped over the gate. He could see Rowf s paw marks in a patch of mud immediately below. He raised one of his own paws and, a little surprised to find the inner surface of his eye so insensitive, pulled down a clot of sticky, dusty cobweb. The dust made him sneeze and he scuffled on the shelf, trying to get the mess off his paw and snapping at a fly that flew against the pane, recovered itself and buzzed away.

"The trouble is, I don't think I can reach as far as the top part of this eye," said Snitter. "I wonder why not? I suppose the whitecoats must have taken some of the inside of my head out--it really does seem awfully empty--and that's why I can't climb all the way to the top. Of course when my master--when my master was al--"

He broke off sharply, stared out and then edged along the shelf to get a clearer view. He had caught sight--he was almost sure he had caught sight--of Rowf and the tod creeping through the long grass a little way to his left. Yes, there they were, beyond all doubt, Rowf conspicuous enough, the tod all but invisible except in the moments when he inched forward.

But why can't I hear them? thought Snitter. Goodness knows where my ears are--somewhere out to the sides, I suppose. What do they look like, anyway? Oh, well, never mind; I suppose I can smell the tod. You generally can.

He jumped down and made his way across to his wiry, cold nose. Yes, sure enough, it was clear that not only Rowf but the unmistakable tod were close outside. A moment later Rowf s muzzle appeared, half-blocking the light.

"Snitter! Are you sure you can't get out? Have you really tried?"

The question caught Snitter unawares. Was he shut in? No--obviously you couldn't be shut into your own head against your will. But if he wasn't, why was it apparently impossible to use his eyes and muzzle at the same time?

"Well, no--you see, Rowf--"

"Come on, then! Quick, too--before the whitecoats come!"

"No, I can't come out, Rowf. I mean, if I do I shall be mad again. I'll explain. You see--"

"Snitter, listen, for goodness' sake! This is no time for one of your turns.

I've brought the tod here to tell you how to get out. Whatever he tells you to do, do it. If he can't get you out, nobody can. But you've got to be quick."

't Rowf s muzzle disappeared and a moment later Snitter not only smelt but saw the tod, peering in at him through the chicken-wire.

Cum oot, ye greet fond article! Sharp wi' ye noo-- wor aall knacked!"

"Listen, I want to explain," said Snitter. "I can't possiy come out. You see--"

"Reel afore ye there--yon back-end drain, straight re ye! Yon's aye the way oot of a shed. Slip yersel' oot that sharp, ye greet nanny-hammer!"

Snitter was considering how best to explain the lordinary situation in which he found himself, the gripped the wire ball in its teeth and tugged it out High the opening in the base of the wall. Snitter, with a of pain and shock, thrust his head and shoulders into widened opening and tried to snatch it back. As he did so, he became suddenly aware that an enormous door had opened in the back of his head, letting in a blaze of light and a rush of cold air. With these came a scraping of men's boots, the sound of human voices and a moment later, faint but dreadfully, unmistakably clear, the smell of the whitecoats--the smell of their hands and their horrible, clean clothes.

Terrified, Snitter crushed and forced his body through the aperture. Behind him he heard a quick plunge of heavy feet and felt a human hand grabbing at his hind-quarters. He scrabbled in the hole, feeling pain along his left side as some pointed excrescence scratched him. Then he was out in the wet grass, bleeding down his flank, with Rowf dragging him forward, teeth in the scruff of his neck. He scrambled to his feet.

"Now run, Snitter, run like a hare, or I'll bite your arse off!"

"I'm so sorry to keep you waiting! I didn't see there was anyone here or I'd have been out directly."

"That's all right," replied Digby Driver, pitching his cigarette over the wall into the Duddon. "Who'd want to be in a hurry in a lovely spot like this? Real old-world charm and peace, eh?"

"Well, there's plenty see it that way," replied Vera pleasantly, as she screwed the cap off the petrol tank, "but as a matter of fact we've had a bit of a rumpus this morning--quite a to-do while it lasted."

"Really--what sort of a to-do?" enquired Mr. Driver, his professional acumen instinctively aroused. "Fill her right up, please."

"Well, early this morning some stray dogs broke in and upset our dustbins," said Vera, "and we felt fairly sure one of them must be the dog that's been causing all the trouble round here--"

"Really? What made you think that?"

"Well, both the dogs had green collars, and they say that shows they come from the Coniston research place. We had one of them shut up in the shed and there's a young gentleman come over from Coniston with a policeman. They're still out at the back now, but unfortunately the dog got away before they could get hold of it."

Thank goodness for that, thought Digby Driver, and what a turn-up for the book to walk right into the middle of something like this!

"Oh, that was bad luck," he replied. "So the research chap had his trip from Coniston for nothing? No, 1 think she's O.K. for oil, thanks. Five forty-eight? There we are--five fifty; and a whole tuppence, all for me. Thanks." At this point Mr. Powell and the policeman appeared, in conversation with Phyllis, who was politely seeing them to their car.

"--and if either of them should turn oop agaain, like," the policeman was saying. "If y' see them round plaace at all, doan't hesitate about telephoning us. It's better to telephone than not to, like. And if y' can keep them in sight--y' know, if it's practicable--that'd be best."

"Yes, of course," replied Phyllis. "I must say I hope they don't come back, though."

Digby Driver stepped forward, smiling politely.

"I've just been hearing something about this bit of trouble of yours over the stray dogs," he said. "I hope they didn't do any damage?"

"No, luckily not," answered Phyllis. "Of course, they've pulled the rubbish all over the yard and made a terrible mess, but nothing worse than that. And these two gentlemen have been very helpful in tidying it up for us."

"I suppose you're anxious to get hold of the dogs, aren't you?" pursued Driver, turning to the policeman.

"Ay, well, stray dogs killin' sheep's a serious matter oop *ere, y' knaw," replied the policeman. "And then it's been aggravated, like, by this 'ere tragic death, y'see--very naasty, that was."

"Yes, indeed, I read about it in the paper," said Driver, offering his cigarettes round the company. Phyllis, Vera and the policeman declined, but Mr. Powell was more forthcoming.

"And if I'm not mistaken, you must be the poor bloke from the research laboratory," went on Driver, flicking his cigarette lighter between Mr. Powell's cupped hands. "You carry the can, do you?"

"Well, I don't know yet whether we do or not," answered Mr. Powell, recalling as he spoke the Director's policy of silence, as expounded by Dr. Boycott. "I still need to get a sight of the dogs, you see. They might be ours and then again they might not."

"Did you not see that one as it was pushing itself through the drain-hole?" asked Vera. "Kind of a black-and-white terrier it was, and the most terrible gash--"

"Yes, but of course it was just its head that I couldn't get to see," replied Mr. PoweU. "It was outside already, you know, by the time we opened the door."

"They both had green collars," said Phyllis, "and I don't know where a dog could come by such a cut across the head as that, except by--well, by vivisection, if that's the right word. It was a terrible sight--enough to make anyone feel really bad--"

"Oh, I don't doubt for a moment that they had green collars," answered Mr. Powell rather hurriedly. "What we don't know, though, is whether these particular dogs are the ones that have been killing the sheep or whether either of them had anything to do with the fatal accident. Probably those are things we never shall know."

There was a rather awkward pause. Everyone seemed to be expecting him to say something more. "We need to get hold of the dogs first, that's what I mean," he added. "Then we may learn whose they are, mayn't we, and where they come from?"

"Oh--I thought perhaps the research station would know whether they had any dogs missing," said Vera, putting the obvious question in the politest possible way, "and what they looked like. The other dog now--the one you didn't see--that was altogether different to look at. It was a big, kind of a rough--" To the sharp eye and experienced journalistic sense of Digby Driver, it was plain that Mr. Powell, young, honest, ingenuous and a trifle callow, was about to find himself in deep water--if indeed he were not already there. Obviously, the thing to do was to come to his aid: there would be nothing like so much to be gained by pressing awkward questions on him or adding to his confusion. "Oh, that reminds me," he said, smiling at Vera. "Sorry--not changing the subject or anything, but it was what you were saying about the one we didn't see. There's been a most peculiar noise coming from the engine of my car, but I can't actually see anything at all. I'm usually rather good at seeing noises, too, and hearing smells and all that. I wonder--" he turned to Mr. Powell. "Would you be good enough, seeing you're here, to put an ear under the bonnet and tell me what you think? I'm sure you know a lot more about these things than I do."

As he had expected, Mr. Powell was not backward in seizing the floating spar. "Yeah--well, sure, if I can," he said. "I can't claim to be an internal combustion expert, but--"

"I bet you're more of an expert than I am," replied Mr. Driver cordially, as he led the way across to the Triumph Toledo standing by the pumps. He propped open the bonnet and started the engine. "Damn nuisance for you, all these people asking questions," he went on, revving the engine with one hand to make the interior a still more fine and private place. They both leaned inward, heads close together. "I suppose you want to say as little as you can, don't you; and hope the bloody dogs'll go up in smoke one dark night? That's what I'd want, I know that."

"Well, you've about said it," answered Mr. Powell, his spirits already rising in response to the stranger's quick understanding and ready sympathy. "I mean, you know, if one's got to spend half a day going out in a police car about three times a week, every time someone gets a sight of a stray dog anywhere in the Lake District--"

"These provincial police are so damned unimaginative," said Digby Driver. "Anyway, why should you have to Stand in a white sheet even before anybody's proved that. this dog--or these dogs, if there are two of the buggers--i didn't know there were--come from your place? I mean, h|t's like asking a bloke whether or not he's screwed Mary irown because she's looking for someone to pin an affiliaion order on to--why the hell should anyone expect him answer up and put himself in the dock?"

Mr. Powell laughed; and gave every evidence of appreciating this witty, young-man-of-the-world approach.

'Well, whatever it may have been, the bloody thing sems to have stopped doing it now," said Mr. Driver, jerking his thumb at the engine. "It would, of course, when the expert comes along. Look, I say, are you going back to Coniston now? Only I'm going that way, and unless you particularly want to go back with your policeman chum, you'd be doing me a good turn if you'd let me give you a lift. Then you could hear the noise if it develops again."

"But are you sure I'd not be taking you out of your way?" asked Mr. Powell. Ten minutes later, munching Phyffis's Kendal Mint Cake (as eaten by Biliary and Tensing on the summit of Everest), Mr. Driver and his passenger passed within a few yards of the vigilant tod crouched among the hazels and continued on their way towards Ulpha and Broughton.

"I don't know why the hell they can't say straight out whether they've lost any dogs or not," said Gerald Gray, landlord of the Manor at Broughton-in-Furness, as he drew a pint for Mr. Hutchinson the butcher (known locally as Mistroochinson) and a half for himself. "What getg me down is all this damned ca' canny stuff. Everyone knows there's a dog up at Seathwaite killing sheep and everyone's virtually certain it's escaped from Lawson Park; but the station themselves won't even say yea or nay. Well, why the hell won't they?"

"Ay, well, ye've about said it theer, Gerry," replied Mistroochinson. At this relatively early hour there was no one else in that finest of all pubs, the Manor Hotel at Broughton. The banded slate floor lay cool, dark and smooth as a woodland pool in autumn. The newly lit fire was burning up in the beautiful, eighteenth-century fireplace and Strafford, Gerald's black tom-cat, sat purring on the rag rug, as well he might.

"They're bein' what ye might call circumspect," added Mistroochinson sagaciously. "Not sayin' nowt until they've got to, like."

"Well, they'll damned well have to soon, I should think," answered Gerald. "Another sheep or two and the local peasantry'll be storming the gates of the station with fefire and sword. Heads will roll and bells will toll. Balls fall," he added, after a moment. "Ay, well, but everyone's worried about joost his oan sheep, Gerry, tha knaws, and noan s' mooch about any-woon else's," said Mistroochinson. "They say--"

"Well, talk of the devil," interrupted Gerald, looking out of the window into the pretty, quiet little square that forms I the centre of Broughton. "Here's one of those very re-f search buggers coming in now, unless I'm much mistaken. That's young Stephen Powell, who works up at Lawson. Wonder what he's doing here so early in the morning?" It had not been particularly hard for Digby Driver to,-. persuade Mr. Powell to stop off for a quick one in Brough-gton before returning to duty. A moment later he entered \-_ the bar with his companion, wished Gerald good morning and ordered two pints of bitter.

"Pints at this time of day?" demurred Mr. Powell, albeit a trifle halfheartedly.

"Oh, sorry," replied Mr. Driver civilly. "Never mind, they're here now and they won't do us any harm, I'm sure. "

"O.K., but then I really must hurry back to those blinking rabbits," said Mr. Powell. "Well, here's mud in your. eye!"

I "Cheers!" responded Mr. Driver. I "Morning, Gerald," said Mr. Powell, perhaps a shade. more tardily than courtesy to a landlord requires, as he '. paused for breath between his first and second pull. /"TOow's the world treating you?" f "Oh, mustn't grumble," answered Gerald. "And yourself?"

"Fine, thanks."

.: "And how's Stephanie?" asked Gerald, this time with toore than a touch of genuine solicitude in his voice. "She's--well, she's about the same, you know," replied Powell. His noticeable, if controlled, clouding of ler did not escape Digby Driver. A sick child? he Midered. An invalid sister-in-law? An expert in observ-; and exploiting personal grief and suffering, he stored little incident away for future use. *You were just telling me that the dogs went from room to room through the animal block, but nobody knows how they finally succeeded in escaping?" he asked.

"Well, I'm blest if / know how they did," answered Mr. Powell, "unless they dissolved themselves in smoke and blew away up the chimney. But to tell you the truth, I don't really want to spend any more of this pleasant morning talking about the sods. They've made enough trouble for me already."

"What a damn shame!" said Digby Driver. "Why the hell should you be blamed?

It's like the old lady a»d the parrot in the public lavatory--d'you know that one?"

Nobody knew it, and Mr. Driver obligingly related it to an appreciative audience. It reminded Gerald of one about two miners and a cow, which assisted Mr. Powell to the conclusion that, since nobody at Lawson Park could possibly tell how long he might need to investigate the Dun-nerdale dogs and return, it would be a pity to hurry away. He set up three more pints, including one for Mistroochin-son; and then insisted on buying a fourth, for Gerald. Nobody ever wants to leave the bar of the Manor.

The sense of loss and desolation lay over Snitter's awareness like hill-mist.

Rising, here and there, out of this separating mirk, he could discern three or four peaks of certain knowledge, as that his master was dead, that he himself was mad, that men had destroyed the natural world and substituted a wilderness and that although he had now lost again the head which he had briefly found, he still carried in himself the involuntary power to deal death. But from what viewpoint he was regarding these; what the mist-covered land connecting them looked like; their relationship to each other beneath the miasma of confusion and ignorance from which they protruded--in short, where he was--these things remained dark to him. He lay still among the bare hazel branches and leafless elder, but from time to time raised his head to the sky with a howl, cut short as often as Rowf turned upon him, cursing.

"You can't expect any sense," said Snitter petulantly, "from a dog that's just been dragged outside his own head. If only you'd left me where I was!"

"Ye'd nivver be here noo, ye'd be in th' Dark, hinny, ne bother. Them cheps wudda gi'n ye ne chance at aall. Noo bide easy, an' sort yerseF oot." The tod turned to Rowf. "We got te get th' wee fella back hyem afore neet. He's bad i' th' heed aall reet, ne doot."

"But we'll be seen for sure at this time of day. Isn't that what you've been teaching me all this time? We'll have to wait till dark."

"An' hoo ye gan te keep his gob shut, marrer?" enquired the tod sardonically. "He'll be yammerin' his heed off, an' fetchin' aall th' farmers fer five miles roond. It's howway wi' us te Broon Haw, an' sharp as w' can shift an' aall."

"In broad daylight?" asked Rowf again.: "Ah shud say so--unless yer gan te leave him here. We got to get him undergroond an' well in-bye an' aall, where nebody'll hear him. Howway noo! He'll manage sure eneuf."

"But the river?"

"Nowt else for't but swimmin'. There's ne bridge atween Ulpha an' yon noose we wor at."

They swam the Duddon under High Kiln Bank, Rowf setting his teeth to the horrible business and sweeping down twenty yards with the swift, bitter current before I his paws gripped stones and pulled him out on the further r side. They thought themselves unseen, but they were mis-, taken. Bob Taylor, the most skilful fisherman in the valley, working his way with a wet fly up the reach between Ulpha l;_ Church and Hall Dunnerdale Bridge after the running sea 1 trout, caught sight, a hundred and fifty yards upstream, 5 of Snitter's black-and-white back as he plunged across behind the tod. A minute afterwards, Bob hooked a three-quarter pounder and thought no more about what he had seen; but it was to recur to him later.