Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 82, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 April 1915 — OLD MILLER'S DOG [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

OLD MILLER'S DOG

By JOHN PRICE, JR.

"Jehoshaphat!” exclaimed Jim Patera, staring after the couple that walked down the street. "Did you see that, Polly?" Polly, his wife, looked out of the parlor window and threw up her hands in amuement For such a spectacle could not have been imagined in the village. The “couple" consisted of a man and a dog. The man, Henry Miller, was white-haired, shabbily dressed, and walked with a sort of pompous and yet mean self-assertion which indicated clearly, “Keep out of my way.” The dog, a fox-terrier mongrel, trotted beside the man, looking up at him with such an expression of faith and trustfulness as only dogs display. "Who ever heard of Henry Miller showing any affection to anyone?” asked Peters. "You’d think he’d show what little he had to that crippled- son of his, and his young wife and baby,” answered Polly. Old Henry Miller was the hardest character in the place. He had never been known to have a good word to say to anybody. He had turned his only son* out of his house years before, and the boy, who suffered from a congenital lameness, was now living in a mean quarter of the town, with his wife and child. His illness had necessitated his giving up his position. Miller knew all about it, but he collected his mortgage moneys just the same, and added to his pile at the bank, and snarled his way through life, hated and feared, and called "the meanest man in Pilkington.” But even the hardest man has a streak of humanity in him somewhere dr other. Three days before Miller had found the little modgrel, shivering and wet, on his doorstep. The cur looked up at him and whined. Miller had lifted his foot to kick it away when a sudden idea occurred to him. “I guess we’re both outcasts, old boy,” he said, stooping down and patting the dog’s head. "They haven’t

much use for you or me, have they? Let’s stand together, since we’re both without friends." And he took the dog inside and gave it a meal of bread and meat From that time onward the man and dog were inseparable. Miller's idea had been to make the -dog as much feared as he was himself, but all his endeavors to set it on the children, who played about his doorstep in spite of his angry threats, failed. And as the weeks went by it began to seem as though old Miller was growing more human. For instance, there was the day when the baseball, hurled by the boy across the street, went through his parlor window. Old Miller, dozing in his chair, wks awakened by the crash of glass, and the ball, bouncing across the floor, landed in his lap. The mongrel leaped up and barked. The furious old man saw what had happened at once. He snatched up a stick and rushed to his door. Upon the opposite side of the street the children, too terrified to run, were staring in fascination., into Miller’s house. - "I’ll teach you a lesson!” yelled Miller. “Sic ’em. Outcast!” The dog leaped at the nearest boy, ptilled at his coat, and stood wagging his tail and uttering short, sharp barks as he looked pleadingly from the boy to his master. Outcast knew what had been in Miller’s mind, but he wasn’t going to harm his friends. He had played with them too often for that Old Miller, who had advanced across the street, waving his stick, suddenly stopped dead. The dog continued to wag his tail and look up at hfm "You ought to be more careful,” muttered Miller. "However, boys will be boys. I’ve done the same thing myself in my day when I had friends to play with.” The miracle was duly reported ibout the town. From that day for

ward Miller was never annoyed by the children again. It began to be said that the dog, which he had adopted out of the bitterness of his heart, was making a man of him. Old acquaintances, who had dropped Miller years before, began to nod to him in the street. Somehow life began to seem easier to the old man. However, he still collected his money as harshly as ever, he still snarled as he went about his ways. It is hard to change one’s disposition at seventy. But the dog was always at his side, with the friendliest disposition imaginable, always with tail wagging, and Miller's devoted friend. Then came the day which was destined to have a permanent effect on the old man. He was going home with Outcast after an interview with one of his debtors. He had fully lived up to his, reputation and he was thinking bitterly that he would show the fellow no more mercy than he would have expected. Suddenly a runaway horse came tearing down the street, attached to a buggy, fortunately empty, which was swayt*a>* dizzily from side to side. ♦ Right in the path of the animal was a young woman, poorly dressed, wheeling a baby-carriage. She saw the horse and seemed paralyzed with fear. She did not know where to turn. The animal was almost on top of her. Suddenly Outcast leaped from the old man's side and sprang directly in the horse’s path, barking furiously. The horse swerved, Outcast caught at the reins, the horse dashed to one side and fell, dragging down the dog with it and overturning the buggy within a foot of the baby-carriage. An instant later the spectators had leaped to the fallen animal's side and were pulling It to its feet. Others seized the mother and the carriage and conducted them across the street under the shade of Miller’s trees. The woman was sobbing hysterically and clutching the child, which still slept, in her arms. Miller stood at the side of the horse.

Outcast was in a sorry plight. The horse had kicked him as it fell and inflicted serious Injuries. The dog could not rise; it got on its front feet’ and dragged Its hind quarters pitifully. It licked its master’s hand. Old Miller, forgetful of all but the dog, kneeled beside it, stroking the paralyzed back. It was clear that Outcast had not long to live. He picked him up in his arm's. There were tears In old Miller’s eyes, and his hide-bound nature seemed softened at last —broken. As he stood there the young woman came up to him timidly. "Your dog has saved my baby’s life," she said. “Is there anything I can do —anything at all ? , I don’t know how I can thank you. I have nobody in the world bat my child and crippled husband.” Old Miller stared at her. “What is your name, girl?” he demanded roughly. “Emily Miller, sir.” Old Miller took her hands in his. “I have nobody in the world either —unless my children come back to me,” he said. People said afterward that it was th» joy of the reunion that made old Miller a friend of all the boys and girls in Pilkington. But everybody gave the credit to Outcast, who might generally have been seen playing with little Henry on the old man’s doorstep. The superstition grew, also, that when the noted surgeon cured the old man's son of his lameness It passed into the dog, and that was why he limped a little. Because things get distorted with the lapse of time, long before he died “cranky” old Miller had passed into a legend. (Copyright, 1915, by W. G. Chapman.)

The Man and Dog Were lnseparable.