“sailor.”

That great painter of animals, Sir Edwin Landseer, never sketched a

nobler specimen of the canine race than the big, black, curly

Newfoundland dog, Sailor, the hero of our story. He was a fine,

faithful dog, and almost as large as a young foal, and every bit as

frisky and as harmless, save when teased by naughty boys. If you tried

ever so hard you couldn’t hide anything from Sailor. You might fasten

him in a room and then attempt to conceal a ball, or a piece of wood,

in the garden or the stables, but the moment you set him free Sailor

would hunt the object out and return with it in his mouth. Besides

being sagacious, the faithful brute could dive and swim like a fish;

that is why he received such a suitable name.

Captain Hauser, of the barque South Australian, had brought him from

India when but a puppy, but now the worthy captain had settled down

ashore with his two boys at Anchordale on the River Murray, and the dog

had become almost one of the family circle.

On a very hot afternoon, and when the New Year was scarcely a score of

days old, Bertie Hauser and his cousin, Tom Blake, took it into their

heads to have a row down the river. Anchordale was a pleasant cottage

situated on the bank of the Murray, with a tiny skiff fastened to a

stout post at the end of the orchard.

Bertie was only eight years of age, and Tom one year older; but the

boat being so small and light they managed to get afloat and paddled

away in high glee down the river. The dog, Sailor, was the only one who

had seen them depart, and he, with wagging tail and out-hanging tongue,

had begged, as only dumb animals can, to accompany them on their trip;

but Tom Blake said the boat would be swamped with such a cargo, and so

the lads had departed without him. Now, although Sailor was dumb, he

wasn’t blind. Neither was the poor brute wanting in instinct. Many a

day he had acted as a substitute for a pony for little Bertie, and had

even suffered the child to put a string into his mouth for a bridle,

and had trotted or cantered and walked up and down the lawn according

to the whim of his infantile rider. Indeed, Sailor was a kind old dog,

and probably thought it his duty to guard the person of his young

master, on land or on the water.

Perhaps this instinct prompted the Newfoundland to crawl cat-like

through the dense scrub on the bank of the river and keep the skiff in

view. Be that as it may, the dog never lost sight of them for a moment.

He saw Tom Blake guide the boat into a wide part of the stream, and

where the banks were very high and almost as steep as the gable of a

house.

“Oh, Bertie, here’s the place for a bathe. Are you game?” asked Tom,

rocking the boat.

Bertie assented. They found a little cove, where they landed, and made

fast the skiff; then ascending the high bank they began to prepare for

the water. Both boys had been taught to swim—as all boys should be—but

Bertie and his cousin had been warned not to bathe down the river,

because there were places teeming with snags and dangerous

undercurrents. Tom and his companion had forgotten all about the

caution. The water at this spot appears very dark and still and cool,

with the shadows of the overhanging trees upon it, and the drooping

branches of the willows laving to and fro on its bosom with a dreamy

sound.

“What a frightful jump!” cried Bertie, approaching the brink timidly,

and looking over at the river beneath. “It’s a high leap, Tom; hadn’t

we better go a little farther down?”

“Not at all,” responds Tom, swinging his arms about above his head. “I

like a good header; you stand there and watch me dive.”

Bertie stands aside and watches him. Tom retires several paces, starts

forward with a short, quick run, and springs headforemost from the

cliff into the river. For a moment the waters bubble and widen out in

circling eddies over the broad expanse. Bertie Hauser stands looking

down trying to trace the white, shapely form of his cousin cleaving

through the dark stream, expecting to see him rise to the surface

twenty yards away from where he plunged in. But many seconds go by, and

Tom Blake rises not, and poor Bertie, in an agony of suspense, calls to

him to “come up at once, or he will be drownded,” as if the treacherous

element would part its substance and carry his weak voice below, to its

holes and caves, where his companion is struggling for his little life.

“Tom, Tom, dear cousin Tom,” cries the child on the bank, as the truth

begins to dawn upon him that Tom is drowning. “Oh! what shall I do to

help him? What shall I do?” When lo! old Sailor comes bounding towards

him with a joyous bark. The boy clutches his favourite by the ears and

draws him forward to the brink of the river, where, pointing down to

the water, he urges on the dog with voice and gesture. “Ho, Sailor,

fetch him out, old fellow, go on—bring him out.”

Sailor needs no second bidding. Before Bertie has the words out of his

mouth, the dog comprehends the whole business, and leaps into the water

and disappears. How anxiously the child watches for his re-appearance!

At a spot half way up the stream, he observes the water begin to whirl

and eddy and bubble upward, as being disturbed by a great commotion

beneath; and here Sailor rises to the surface, and blows the water from

his snout, like a whale; but the dog is alone. There is no sign of poor

Tom Blake. Little Bertie becomes sick and faint with terror, but the

boy does not lose his presence of mind. He has every confidence in the

Newfoundland’s strength and courage.

“Ho, Sailor, fetch him out, old boy, bring him out.”

Downward plunges the gallant dog again, while his young master, naked

as he is, rushes down to the skiff, jumps in, and pushes into

midstream, running athwart the dog, as he rises once more. This time

Sailor has something in his mouth, but the boat knocking against him

causes him to let go. Yet he dives after it, and appears again in a

moment with the drowning boy. Sailor has clutched him firmly by the

hair of the head, and the dog’s great red eyes are all aflame as he

buoys up the insensible child and paddles the water with ponderous

strokes and lands him safe upon the bank.

What avail little Bertie’s terms of endearment and the affectionate

appeals he makes to his still, silent cousin? Tom Blake is deaf. And

although Bertie may make a hundred promises of bats and guns and ponies

poor Tom cannot hear him.

It is fortunate that two men with swags upon their backs are passing at

the time, who carry the unfortunate youth into the sunlight, and rub

his body vigorously with their hands until the vitality that was almost

extinct begins to revive again within him.

When Tom had partly recovered and could speak, he told his uncle, the

captain, that when he dived he struck his head against a snag, which

rendered him insensible, and no doubt in that state he was being

carried away by the current when the dog found him.

And poor Tom was grateful for the service, for when he was quite well

he bought the Newfoundland a grand collar, and had the following

inscription engraven on it:—

“Sailor,

“Rescued Tom Anson Blake from drowning on the

18th January, 187-, at Anchordale, River Murray.”