Further Adventures of Lad   By: Albert Payson Terhune (1872-1942)

by

ALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE

FOREWORD

Sunnybank Lad won a million friends through my book, "LAD: A DOG"; and through the Lad anecdotes in "Buff: A Collie." These books themselves were in no sense great. But Laddie was great in every sense; and his life story could not be marred, past interest, by my clumsy way of telling it.

People have written in gratifying numbers asking for more stories about Lad. More than seventeen hundred visitors have come all the way to Sunnybank to see his grave. So I wrote the collection of tales which are now included in "Further Adventures of Lad." Most of them appeared, in condensed form, in the Ladies' Home Journal.

Very much, I hope you may like them.

ALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE "Sunnybank" Pompton Lakes, New Jersey

FURTHER ADVENTURES OF LAD

CONTENTS

I. The Coming Of Lad II. The Fetish III. No Trespassing! IV. Hero Stuff V. The Stowaway VI. The Tracker VII. The Juggernaut VIII. In Strange Company IX. Old Dog; New Tricks X. The Intruders XI. The Guard

CHAPTER I. The Coming Of Lad

In the mile away village of Hampton, there had been a veritable epidemic of burglaries ranging from the theft of a brand new ash can from the steps of the Methodist chapel to the ravaging of Mrs. Blauvelt's whole lineful of clothes, on a washday dusk.

Up the Valley and down it, from Tuxedo to Ridgewood, there had been a half score robberies of a very different order depredations wrought, manifestly, by professionals; thieves whose motor cars served the twentieth century purpose of such historic steeds as Dick Turpin's Black Bess and Jack Shepard's Ranter. These thefts were in the line of jewelry and the like; and were as daringly wrought as were the modest local operators' raids on ash can and laundry.

It is the easiest thing in the world to stir humankind's ever tense burglar nerves into hysterical jangling. In house after house, for miles of the peaceful North Jersey region, old pistols were cleaned and loaded; window fastenings and doorlocks were inspected and new hiding places found for portable family treasures.

Across the lake from the village, and down the Valley from a dozen country homes, seeped the tide of precautions. And it swirled at last around the Place, a thirty acre homestead, isolated and sweet, whose grounds ran from highway to lake; and whose wistaria clad gray house drowsed among big oaks midway between road and water; a furlong or more distant from either.

The Place's family dog, a pointer, had died, rich in years and honor. And the new peril of burglary made it highly needful to choose a successor for him.

The Master talked of buying a whalebone and steel and snow bull terrier, or a more formidable if more greedy Great Dane. But the Mistress wanted a collie. So they compromised by getting the collie.

He reached the Place in a crampy and smelly crate; preceded by a long envelope containing an intricate and imposing pedigree. The burglary preventing problem seemed solved.

But when the crate was opened and its occupant stepped gravely forth, on the Place's veranda, the problem was revived.

All the Master and the Mistress had known about the newcomer, apart from his price and lofty lineage, was that his breeder had named him "Lad."

From these meager facts they had somehow built up a picture of a huge and grimly ferocious animal that should be a terror to all intruders and that might in time be induced to make friends with the Place's vouched for occupants. In view of this, they had had a stout kennel made and to it they had affixed with double staples a chain strong enough to restrain a bull.

(It may as well be said here that never in all the sixteen years of his beautiful life did Lad occupy that or any other kennel nor wear that or any other chain.)