Liebherr BMk'S Crane Service Manual

Liebherr BMk'S Crane Service Manual

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Finn The Wolfhound
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Finn The Wolfhound

Author: A. J. Dawson

Illustrator: Robert Hugh Buxton

Release date: November 26, 2009 [eBook #30550]

Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Clare Graham, in memory of my dear father

George Edgar Graham who first introduced me to Finn and
his son Jan.

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FINN THE

WOLFHOUND ***
The man had his back to the withered iron-bark now.

FINN THE WOLFHOUND

By A. J. DAWSON

AUTHOR OF "'THE MESSAGE," "THE GENTEEL A.B.," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY R. H. BUXTON

This etext prepared from a 1909 reprint of the first edition published
in 1908 by Grant Richards of London and printed by William Brendon
and Son Ltd of Plymouth.
TO "THE MISTRESS OF THE KENNELS" AND TO THE MEMORY
OF TYNAGH MOTHER OF WOLFHOUND HEROES ITS WRITER
DEDICATES THIS HISTORY

Witchampton, 1908
CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. The Mother of Heroes

CHAPTER II. In the Beginning

CHAPTER III. The Foster-mother

CHAPTER IV. First Steps

CHAPTER V. Youth beside the Downs

CHAPTER VI. The Ordeal of the Ring

CHAPTER VII. Revelations

CHAPTER VIII. Finn Walks Alone

CHAPTER IX. The Heart of Tara

CHAPTER X. A Transition Stage

CHAPTER XI. A Sea Change

CHAPTER XII. The Parting of the Ways

CHAPTER XIII. An Adventure by Night

CHAPTER XIV. The Southern Cross Circus

CHAPTER XV. The Making of a Wild Beast

CHAPTER XVI. Martyrdom

CHAPTER XVII. Freedom

CHAPTER XVIII. Too Late

CHAPTER XIX. The Domestic Lure

CHAPTER XX. The Sunday Hunt

CHAPTER XXI. Three Dingoes went a-walking

CHAPTER XXII. A Break-up in Arcadia

CHAPTER XXIII. The Outcast

CHAPTER XXIV. A Lone Bachelor

CHAPTER XXV. Mated

CHAPTER XXVI. The Pack and its Masters

CHAPTER XXVII. Single Combat

CHAPTER XXVIII. Domestic Life in the Mountain Den

CHAPTER XXIX. Tragedy in the Mountain Den

CHAPTER XXX. The Exodus

CHAPTER XXXI. The Trail of Man

CHAPTER XXXII. In the Last Ditch

CHAPTER XXXIII. Back from the Wild

LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

THE MAN HAD HIS BACK TO THE WITHERED IRON-BARK NOW

FINN AND HIS FOSTER-MOTHER

TARA SMILED BROADLY, AND STRETCHED OUT HER FORE-

LEGS ON THE GROUND

THE GATE LEADING INTO THE YARD OPENED, AND BILL

APPEARED

FINN'S TEETH SANK DEEP

THE NEXT INSTANT SAW THE PROFESSOR FLUNG BACK AT

LENGTH AGAINST THE BARS OF THE CAGE

WAS LOST IN THE SHADOW OF THE MAIN TENT

SPURRING HIS HORSE FORWARD

HE WAS BACKING GRADUALLY TOWARDS A BOULDER BESIDE

THE TRAIL

FINN WAS STANDING ROYALLY ERECT

FINN'S TOWERING FORM STOOD OUT CLEARLY IN THE

MOONLIGHT

HE SLUNG THE WALLABY OVER HIS SHOULDER AND SET OUT

FOR THE MOUNTAIN
SCRAMBLING AND SLIDING DOWN THE HIGH BANKS OF A
RIVER-BED

THEY SETTLED WITHIN A DOZEN PACES OF HIS RECUMBENT

FIGURE

FOUR MEN WERE RIDING TOGETHER THROUGH THE LOW

BURNT-UP SCRUB

THE WOLFHOUND RAISED HIS BEARDED MUZZLE, AND

SOFTLY LICKED THE MASTER'S THIN BROWN HAND
CHAPTER I

THE MOTHER OF HEROES

For a man whose thirtieth year was still not far behind him, the man's
face was over careworn. It suggested that he felt life's difficulties
more keenly than a man should at that age. But it may have been
that this was a necessary part of the keenness with which the whole
of life appealed to him; its good things, as well as its worries.

He rose from his writing-table and straightened his back with a long
sigh, clenching both hands tightly, and stretching both arms over his
shoulders, as he moved across the little room to its window. The
window gave him an extensive view of dully gleaming roofs and
chimney-pots, seen through driving sleet, towards the end of a raw
forenoon in February. The roofs he saw were those of one of
London's cheap suburbs; first, a block of "mansions" similar to those
in which his own flat was situated; then a rather superior block,
where the rents were much cheaper because they were called
"dwellings"; and beyond that, the huddled small houses of a quarter
with which no builder had interfered since early Victorian days.
The man turned away from the dripping window, and looked round
this den in which he worked. Its walls were mostly covered by book-
shelves, but in the gaps between the shelves there were pictures; a
rather odd mixture of pictures, of men and women and dogs. The
men and women were mostly people who had written books, and the
dogs were without exception Irish Wolfhounds; those fine animals
which combine in themselves the fleetness of the greyhound, the
strength of the boarhound, and the picturesque, wiry shaggyness of
the deerhound; those animals whose history goes back to the
beginning of the Christian era; through all the storied ages in which
they were the friends and companions of kings and princes, great
chieftains and mighty hunters.

For several minutes the man paused before a picture, underneath

which was written: "The Mistress of the Kennels." This picture
showed a girl with wind-blown hair, happy face, and laughing eyes,
standing, with a small puppy in her arms, in the midst of a wide
kennel enclosure on the sloping rise of an upland meadow. In the
background one saw a comfortable-looking house, half hidden by
two huge walnut trees, and flanked by a row of aged elms. When the
man had looked his fill at this picture, and at other pictures of various
Irish Wolfhounds, each marked with the name and age of the hound
depicted, he sighed, and went to the window again. While he stood
there, looking out through the February sleet, the door of the den
opened, and the Mistress of the Kennels came in, wearing a big,
loose overall, or pinafore, which covered her dress completely. Her
face had not quite the colour which the picture made one feel it must
have had when she stood in that wide, windy, kennel enclosure; but
it was still a sunny face; the eyes were still laughing eyes; a loving,
lovable face, one felt, even though London had robbed it of some of
its open-air freshness. She walked up to the man's side, and, seeing
the expression on his face as he gazed out over the wet roofs, she
said--

"Yes, it is, rather--isn't it?--after Croft."

"Oh, don't talk of Croft, child, or you'll bring my spring madness upon
me before its time. I have had hints of it this morning, as it is. It
seems almost incredible that we have only been two years and four
months away from Croft, and the old open life. I was looking at the
picture of the Mistress of the Kennels just now. Do you remember
that morning? Tara's first litter hadn't long been weaned. My
goodness, the air was sweet in that meadow! That was the morning
poor old crippled Eileen ran the rabbit down, you remember."

"Yes, and it was old Tara's third day out, after that awful illness. Well,
well, it's a blessed thing to know that the old dear is happy, and has
such a lovely home down in Devonshire, isn't it?"

"Yes, oh yes; I know it might have been worse, and I'm a brute to be
discontented, but--two and a half years! Why, it seems more like
twenty, since we lived in a place where you could lean out of the
window and drink the air; where I could go outside in my pyjamas
before tubbing in the morning, and see the dogs, and set the rabbits
flying in the orchard. Two years and four months. Do you know, if we
give spring madness half a chance this year, it strikes me it will lead
us out of this huddled, pent-in town, out to the open again. I almost
think we could manage it now. I hardly seem to have lifted my nose
from that table since last summer; but it's true the bank book shows
small results as yet."

"And four years was to be the minimum, wasn't it? We thought of

five, at first."

"Yes, yes; I know. My idea was that we would not go back till it
seemed sure we should be able really to stay; no more returns to
town with our tails between our legs. But, all the same, when I look
out of that window--if we really lived cottage style, you know."

"But should we? Cottages don't have kennels, you know; not
Wolfhound kennels, anyhow."

"I know. Oh, of course, it would be quite unjustifiable, quite mad; but-
-I thought I felt signs of spring madness when I looked out of that
window this morning."

"Oh, well! Now do you know what I came in for? I came to tell you
that this is the last day of the Dog Show at the Agricultural Hall. You
remember that I have to go over to Mrs. Kenneth's this afternoon,
and I think it would be a good plan for you to take an afternoon off
and go to the Show. If you don't, it will be the third year you have
missed it. I really think you ought to go. It will do you good."

"H'm! I should hardly have thought a Dog Show was a good thing for
spring madness and the change fever; rather dangerous, I should
have thought," said the man, with a queer little twisted smile.

"Oh, yes; I think it is all right; quite bracing; a sort of trial of strength;
and quite safe, because we know that madness in that direction is
simply and altogether impossible. You have been working too hard;
and besides, it will do you good to meet the people. You will see a lot
of the youngsters we reared; there are three champions among them
now. Do go!"
A little more than an hour later he was on his way to the Dog Show,
at which, in other days, he had been one of the principal exhibitors. A
bout of ill-health, combined with consequent diminution of earnings,
and a characteristic habit of doing things on a more generous scale
than his income justified, had led to a break-up of his country home,
with its big kennels and stabling, and a descent upon London in
pursuit of economical living and increased earnings. Parting with the
kennels and their inhabitants had been the severest wrench of all;
and it is probable that, even in the mean little town flat, room would
have been found for Tara, the well-loved mother of Irish Wolfhound
heroes, but for the special circumstance that an excellent home had
been offered for her in Devonshire. The Devonshire lady to whom
Tara had, after long deliberations, been sold by the Master, had been
extremely keen upon purchasing her, and, in addition to offering a
splendid home, had faithfully promised that in no circumstances
whatever would she think of parting with Tara unless to the Master
himself. Here then was an opportunity which the man had felt that he
could not afford to miss.

He had been very much concerned about other matters and other
troubles at the time, but when the actual morning of Tara's departure
had arrived, he had begun to feel very bad about it. The household
gathered round to bid good-bye to the beautiful hound, and her
Master himself took her to the station. When Tara was in the guard's
van she looked out through a barred window at her friend on the
station platform, and he said afterwards that the situation exhausted
every ounce of self-control he possessed. He had an overpowering
impulse, even when the train was moving, to jump aboard and
release old Tara.

"I would sooner face the Bankruptcy Court than have her mournful
old eyes turned upon me again with just that wonderingly reproachful
look," he said.

But glowing reports were received of Tara's happiness in her new

home, with its extensive grounds and generous management; and,
though Tara was never forgotten--one does not forget such a mother
of heroes, when one has bred her and nursed her through mortal
illness--her Master had ceased to grieve about her or to feel self-
reproachful about having parted with her.

Arrived in the great show building, he wandered up and down

between the benches, pausing now and again to speak to an old
acquaintance, human or canine, as the case might be. But this was
the last day of the show, and the majority of the exhibitors were
away. The place had a half-dismantled air about it. The Show was
virtually over. Presently the Master found himself in a kind of
outbuilding, where an auction sale of dogs was being held. There he
sat down on a chair at the edge of the ring in which the dogs for sale
were being led to and fro by attendants for inspection.

After a while a young Irish Wolfhound was led into the ring for sale,
and immediately monopolized the Master's attention, for it was a dog
of his own breeding, sold by him from the country home, Croft, soon
after weaning time. He handled the dog with a deal of interest, and
was expatiating upon its merits to a small group of possible buyers
when he felt another dog nuzzling his arm and wrist from behind,
where it was evidently held by a chain, or in some other way
prevented from coming farther forward, for its muzzle was pressing
hard under his cuff. But the Master was too much interested in
examining the young hound then being offered for sale to pay any
attention to any other animal. In due course, however, the young
Wolfhound was sold and led away, and the auctioneer was heard to
say--

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to lot number a hundred

and twenty-seven, lot one-two-seven, the--er--the--er--er--yes, ladies
and gentlemen, the dam of the fine young hound just sold--a
remarkable good bargain, too--to my friend Mr. Scarr-Hislop. This
magnificent bitch, whose show record I will read to you directly, is,
most of you are probably aware, by the famous Champion O'Leary,
ex--er--Come, come, man; let's have that bitch in the ring, please.
No one can see her there."

The auctioneer spoke sharply to an attendant who stood close to the

Master's seat tugging at a chain. The Master, who had been busy in
conversation up till that moment, turned now to respond to the
pressingly affectionate advances of the unseen animal, whose cold
muzzle he had felt at his wrist for some minutes past.

"Just push her out for me, sir, if you please," said the rebuked
attendant, sulkily. "I can't get her to budge from your chair. The
brute's as strong as a mule."

"Let me have the chain a minute," said the Master, as he rose from
his chair. "I expect you've frightened the---- Why--Great Caesar!
Why--Tara! Tara--dear--old--lady. Who the devil put this hound in
here?"

"Mrs. Forsyth, the owner, put her in; she's for sale, without reserve,"
said a groom, who forced his way forward through the crowd at this
moment.

The Master wasted some moments, but not many, in wondering,

disgusted expostulation, while fondling the head of poor Tara, who
had stood erect with her fore-paws on his shoulders the instant he
recognized her, her noble face all alight with gladness and love.
Through ten acutely unhappy minutes she had nuzzled her friend's
hand, and gained never a hint of recognition or response. Then the
Master walked up to the auctioneer's rostrum, followed by Tara, who,
with no apparent effort, dragged the sulky, puzzled attendant after
him, paying not the slightest heed to his angry jerks at her collar.

"I'm sorry," said the auctioneer, after a few moments' conversation;

"but I cannot possibly postpone the sale, can I? I had my instructions
direct from the owner, and she should know. I am told the dog is
positively to be sold, and---- No, there is no reserve at all. Yes,
certainly, I will take your cheque as deposit, if you will get it endorsed