A READER FOR

THE FIFTH GRADE

BILLY TOPSAIL'S DOG

PART I

Skipper was a Newfoundland dog, who had been brought up in Ruddy Cove. He had black hair, short, straight, and wiry-the curly-haired breed has failed on the Island-and broad shoulders. He was heavy, awkward, and ugly, resembling somewhat a great drafthorse. But he pulled with a will, and within the knowledge of man had never stolen a fish; so he had a high place in the hearts of all the people of the Cove.

"Skipper! Skipper! Here, boy!"

The ringing call, in the voice of Billy Topsail, never failed to bring the dog from the kitchen with an eager rush, when the snow lay deep on the rocks, and all the paths of the wilderness were ready for the sled. He stood stock-still for the harness, and at the first "Hi, boy! Gee up there!" he bounded away with a wagging tail and a glad bark. It was as if nothing pleased him so much on a frosty morning as the prospect of a hard day's work.

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If the call came in summer-time when Skipper was dozing in the cool shadow of a flake-a platform of boughs for drying fish-he scrambled to his feet, took his clog in his mouth and ran, all a-quiver for what might come, to where young Billy waited. If the clog were taken off, as it was almost sure to be, it meant sport in the water. Then Skipper would paw the ground and whine until the stick was flung out for him. But best of all he loved to dive for stones.

At the peep of many a day, too, he went out in the punt to the fishing-grounds with Billy Topsail, and there kept the lad good company all the day long. It was because he sat up in the bow, as if keeping a lookout ahead, that he was called Skipper.

"Sure, 'tis a clever dog, that!" was Billy's boast. "He would save life-that dog would!"

This was proved beyond doubt when little Isaiah Tommy Goodman toddled over the wharf-head, where he had been playing. Isaiah Tommy was four years old, and would surely have been drowned had not Skipper strolled down the wharf just at that moment.

Skipper was obedient to the instinct of all Newfoundland dogs to drag the sons of men from the water. He plunged in and caught Isaiah Tommy by the collar of his pinafore. Still following his instinct, he kept the child's head above water with powerful strokes of his fore paws while he towed him to shore. Then the

outery which Isaiah Tommy immediately set up brought his mother to complete the rescue.

For this deed Skipper was petted for a day and a half, and fed with fried fish and salt pork, to his evident pleasure. No doubt he was persuaded that he had acted worthily. However that be, he continued in merry moods, in affectionate behavior, in honesty -although the fish were even then drying on the flakes, all exposed-and he carried his clog like a real hero.

One day in the spring of the year, when high winds spring suddenly from the land, Billy Topsail was fishing from his punt, the Never Give Up, over the shallows of Molly's Head. It was "fish weather," as the Ruddy Cove men say-gray, cold, and misty. The harbor entrance lay two miles to the southwest. The

bluffs which marked it could hardly be seen, for the mist hung thick off the shore. Four punts and a skiff were bobbing half a mile farther out to sea, their crews fishing with hook and line over the sides of the boats. Thicker weather threatened and the day was nearly

over.

""Tis time to be off home, boy," said Billy to the dog. ""Tis getting thick in the sou'west."

Skipper stretched himself and wagged his tail. He had no word to say, but Billy, who, like all fishermen in far-off places, had formed the habit of talking to himself, supplied the answer.

"The punt's as

""Tis that, Billy, boy," said he. much as one hand can manage in a fair wind. And 'tis a dead beat to the harbor now."

Then Billy said a word for himself.

"We'll put in

for ballast. The punt's too light for a gale."

He sculled the punt to the little cove by the Head, and there loaded her with rocks. Her sails, mainsail and tiny jib, were spread, and she was pointed for Grassy Island, on the first leg of her beat into the wind. By this time two other punts were under way, and the sails of the skiff were fluttering as her crew prepared to beat home for the night. The Never Give Up was ahead of the fleet, and held her lead in such fine fashion as to make Billy Topsail's heart swell with pride.

The wind had gained in force. It was sweeping

down from the hills in gusts. Now it fell to a breeze, and again it came swiftly with angry strength. Nor could its advance be perceived, for the sea was choppy and the bluffs shielded the inshore waters.

"We'll fetch the harbor on the next tack," Billy muttered to Skipper, who was whining in the bow.

He put the steering oar hard over to bring the punt about. A gust caught the sails. The boat heeled before it, and her gunwale was under water before Billy could make a move to save her. The wind forced her down, pressing heavily upon the canvas.

But the ballast of the Never Give Up shifted, and she toppled over. Boy and dog were thrown into the sea, the one aft, the other forward. Billy dived deep to escape entanglement with the rigging of the boat. He had long ago learned the lesson that presence of mind wins half the fight in perilous emergencies. The coward miserably perishes where the brave man survives.

With his courage leaping to meet his danger, he struck out and rose to the surface. He looked about for the punt. She had been heavily weighted with ballast, and he feared for her. What was he to do if she had been too heavily weighted? Even as he looked she sank. She had righted under water; the tip of the mast was the last he saw of her.

The sea-cold, fretful, vast-lay all about him.