"All power lies in knowledge!" Father Baskerville used to say, while he, seemingly absent-mindedly, knocked out his pipe against the edge of the plate-he frequently did that, if the plate stood close to him and he didn't feel like reaching across the table for the ash-tray. Each time, Jack raptly watched this maneuver, silently guessing whether Father would be able to pull this off or not. Sometimes Mother Baskerville, intrigued by these words, which sounded like a very promising prologue to a story, failed to notice the tobacco crumbs poured out onto her dishes, but sometimes she did notice and started a fuss because of the resulting disorder. In those cases, Father had to tell a more engaging tale, so that she would settle down.
The subject of these tales could be absolutely anything. About how he and his comrades, just after they came from overseas and were not yet accustomed to life in Central America, had to raft down a river that was teeming with alligators, and escaped dire peril only thanks to his wits. About a band of con men, who tried to fleece him and sell him a totally useless piece of land, which was one continuous marsh. In this case, actually, Jack thought that his Pop slipped up: there are plenty of amazing things concealed in the marshes, which you wouldn't find on the heat-baked plains. Nonetheless, he listened to his father without interrupting, even though he knew the ending ahead of time: the elder Baskerville would aim his wrinkled finger, snugly encircled by the dulled signet ring, at the younger Baskerville, and declare:
"The point I'm making here, son, is that knowledge can get you out of any trouble. If your fists aren't too big, use your head to fight. Study, son, and study well."
At first, Roger Baskerville cherished a hope that his offspring would succeed in banking or law. His own career was so far from the ideal that he desperately wanted to make up for it via the success of his descendant. The interest Jack evinced towards his books gave Roger great hopes, and very soon, he had valid reasons to be proud of his son's literacy. But the further course of events puzzled the elder Baskerville tremendously. All his attempts to interest the boy in numbers and in curious court cases failed completely. Jack spent hours running about the meadow with a butterfly net or lolled around on his belly near the pond, gazing through his magnifying glass at the little bugs milling about on the half-rotten branches and seaweed. One wouldn't dare call it idleness, either-a plump notebook was always peeking out of his jacket pocket. Anyone looking through that notebook would have seen multiple notes about different coloration of similar in shape butterflies, a cloud of exclamation marks around the date when a multitude of snow-white insect eggs turned up under an old tree root, and the happy date when tiny bugs came out into the world from those eggs. The notes were interspersed with drawings, on which even the tiniest bristles on the insects' legs were painstakingly drawn.
The father Baskerville scratched his head, cleared his throat, and huffed and puffed, lost in thought about how to regard such a turn of events. The mother Baskerville concerned herself regarding only one thing: to make sure that her precious child did not catch cold while lying for hours on the shore of the pond, and did not tear his clothes while climbing trees in search of ants and other small insects. But Jack only grew visibly stronger, while spending entire days in the open air, and his parents made peace with the status quo. Father Baskerville thought it over for a while, and started telling a new series of tales, having slightly changed them, to fit the current circumstances.
"Natural history is a serious science," he uttered, pointing his finger towards the ceiling in admonishment, as if someone were objecting to his statement. There was nobody to contradict him. Jack would have put his signature twice over under this postulate, and his mamma had no interest in any of the different kinds of sciences. But that was where Roger segued into his tale, and his listeners pricked up their ears. Because among Baskerville the elder's favorite stories, there were some that didn't simply engage the listener but thrilled their imagination.
"In front of the suddenly-sobered revelers," Roger was saying in an ominous, hushed voice, and stared off into space with a feverish glitter in his eyes, "the monstrous dog tore up Hugo's throat, and then raised its head, and everybody saw the fresh blood glistening on its canines…"
The carefree singing of birds outside the window would fall silent, and instead, the soft whining of frightened bloodhounds and the snorting of resisting horses was heard from afar. The shadows of the leaves which fell onto the window-will, grew, as if a cool night mist crept throughout the room. And even the summer Costa Rican heat decreased, retreating from the chilling horror of the legend.
During those times, Roger Baskerville could knock out his pipe not only against his plate, but even against the polished to a mirror shine coffeepot-Mrs Baskerville would not have uttered a single word of reproach. As if enchanted, she sat listening to her husband, and on her face, one could discern a mixture of horror and delight. Jack sat next to her on a little bench and looked at his father without breaking eye contact.
And the elder Baskerville, having told the ancient legend, would fall silent and slowly shake his head.
"This tale was narrated to us in our early childhood," he informed his listeners, suddenly, and his voice, clear and loud, had nothing in common with that mysterious whisper with which he'd told the legend. "And you know what? Charles, my dear older brother, was frightened to the point of trembling with fear. That night, when we were first told about our family curse, he couldn't even sleep for fear: he pulled the blanket up over his head and was shaking so hard that I could hear his bedsprings creaking."
Roger harrumphed and tamped down another portion of tobacco into his pipe.
"He used to put on such airs, but he was afraid of this family ghost," he muttered, chuckling.
"And he was the oldest of us three! Oh, my younger brother and I, we used to have a great deal of fun teasing him… We played pranks on him, many times. One time, he got so flustered that we even got a dressing-down from our parents."
He would fall silent for a moment, lost in the reminiscences about childhood mischief, and then he would shake himself and raise his head.
"This is the reason I brought it up: study natural history, Jack! Study it thoroughly, and then nobody can deceive you with any such tales."
And Jack moved closer to his father on the little bench and finally asked the question which had occupied his thoughts for the last few minutes:
"So what breed was the dog?"