Kitabı oku: «Jack, the Fire Dog», sayfa 3
Mr. Ledwell glanced at the faces peering in at the window, following eagerly every motion of the young woman with the paper bag. The little yellow dog was no less interested than the children, and had been held up in the boy’s arms, that he might obtain a better view. From this group Mr. Ledwell’s eyes fell on his little grandson, who was standing up in the sleigh to see what was going on, and whose bright face was aglow with pleasure at the prospect of the treat in store for the group at the window.
“It would be hard to say whether they or Sam are the happiest,” said Mr. Ledwell to the young woman behind the counter, as he took the paper bag and left the store.
“Or the generous man who takes the trouble to give so much pleasure to others,” added the young woman to herself, as she glanced at his kind face.
“Here, little girl,” said Mr. Ledwell, handing the paper bag to Maysie. “Now what will you do with all these good things?”
“We’ll divide them between ourselves,” replied Maysie, promptly.
“And the dog,” said the boy. “He must have his share, because he’s seen them same as we have.”
“Yes, Johnny, of course the dog,” assented Maysie.
“And Mother,” said the older sister.
“Of course, Mother,” agreed Maysie. “Come on!” and off started Maysie, firmly grasping her bag of cakes.
“Why, Maysie, you forgot to thank the gentleman,” said the elder sister.
“Her face has thanked me already,” said Mr. Ledwell.
Maysie, however, thus reminded of her manners, turned and said,—
“Oh, thank you, sir, so much.”
Instantly Maysie was off, followed by her brother and sister.
“Grandpapa,” said Sam, as Mr. Ledwell took his seat in the sleigh, “I think you are the very best grandpapa in town.”
“I am glad you do, Sam,” said Grandpapa.
“Now, if God will only make Billy see, we shall be all right,” said Sam, with his decided nod. “I shall pray to Him every night and ask Him to, and He is so good and kind that I’m pretty sure He will do it.”
CHAPTER FIFTH
MAYSIE, firmly grasping her bag of cakes, rushed through the crowded sidewalks and street-crossings, darting in among the carriages and teams with the skill that only a child brought up in a large city possesses. Sometimes she passed under the very nose of a horse, and it seemed as if she must certainly be run over, but she always came out safe and sound. Her brother and sister, with Toby, followed wherever she went, but found it difficult to keep up with her. She was always some distance ahead of them, and paid no attention to their calls to stop for them to catch up with her.
“Stop, can’t you?” called out Johnny, who was leading Toby, and who always picked him up and carried him across the most crowded streets. “Stop and divy up! They ain’t all yours.”
“I’m going to, Johnny,” replied Maysie, still continuing her rapid gait. “Just a few blocks more, and then I’ll stop.”
So away they all went once more, little Toby as eager as the children for the share that had been promised him. They had gradually left behind them the pleasant part of the city where the bake-shop was situated, and had reached a part where the streets and sidewalks were narrower and the houses smaller and closer together. When they came to a place where building was going on, Maysie came to a stop, and seating herself on a low pile of boards, announced her intention of dividing the contents of the paper bag. Johnny seated himself by her side, placing Toby in his lap, and Hannah, the elder sister, took a seat near by.
They were not a quarrelsome family, and seemed to feel perfectly confident that Maysie would do the right thing by them and divide fairly. They edged as closely to the paper bag as they could get, and took long sniffs of the delicious odors wafted toward them.
“The dog has got to have his share, too,” said Johnny, as Maysie had helped them all around and had not included Toby.
“Each of us can give him a piece of ours,” replied Maysie, breaking off a generous piece of hers and handing it to the little dog.
“No,” said Johnny, firmly, “you agreed to go divies with him, and he heard it, and you’ve got to do it;” and Johnny hugged Toby closely to him, while the little dog looked gratefully into his face and wagged his tail in response.
“Well, then,” said Maysie, “he can have his share;” and she placed one of the largest cakes before Toby, who ate it in such large mouthfuls that it had disappeared and he had lapped up all the crumbs before the children were half through with theirs.
“He eats so fast,” said Maysie, “that he can’t get the good of it.”
Toby tried to explain in the animal language that she was mistaken,—that dogs had proved by experience that they got more taste from their food by swallowing it whole than they did by eating it slowly, and that every sensible dog ate in that way. “A few lap-dogs and such as that may nibble at their food,” explained Toby, “but you can’t go by them.”
This explanation was lost upon the children, however, because they couldn’t understand the animal language Toby spoke in. They thought he was asking for another cake.
“You must wait until we are ready for the second help,” said Johnny, at the same time offering him a piece of his own cake.
Toby tried to make them understand that this was not what he said, but it was of no use, they didn’t know what his whining meant.
“I shouldn’t wonder if he were cold,” suggested Hannah, whereupon good-hearted Johnny unbuttoned his coat and wrapped it around the little dog as well as he could.
“How can I be so mean as to leave these kind children, when they share everything with me?” said Toby to himself. “I do miss those fields to roam about in, though!” and he sighed as he thought of his country home.
At last the cakes were eaten, and one of each kind left to be taken home to Mother. These were carefully wrapped up, and the party started for home.
It was a poor place, their home, but they had never known a better one, and they were such happy, contented children that they really enjoyed more than some children who have beautiful homes and clothes, and everything that money can buy; for, after all, it is not money and beautiful things that bring happiness. Often those who have the least of these are the most contented and happy, if they are blessed with sweet tempers and cheerful natures.
In the rear of the tenement-house where the children lived, was a shed. It was a dark, cheerless affair, but in it the children had made a bed of some straw that a stable-man near by had given them, and here they had kept Toby. It was not very warm, but it was better than no shelter; and then Toby had been brought up in the country, and he was not quite so sensitive to the cold as dogs who are kept in city houses are.
“It seems awfully cold here,” said Johnny, as he looked about the bleak shed. The door had long since disappeared, and the raw winter air entered through the large opening.
“He looks kind of shivery,” said Hannah. “Perhaps, if we tell Mother about him, she will let us keep him in the house.”
“I don’t believe she will,” said Johnny, “because whenever I have asked her to let us keep a dog, she said we couldn’t afford it, they ate so much.”
“Let’s try,” said Hannah. “It is going to be awfully cold to-night. Maysie can tell her, because she lets her do so many more things than she does the rest of us.”
This was true. Little Maysie, the baby of the family, had been indulged and petted more than the rest, because she had not been so rugged as they were. When they all had the measles and whooping-cough, Maysie it was who had them the hardest. Maysie, too, had been very ill with pneumonia. Thus they had gotten into the habit of letting her have her way whenever any important question was at hand. So it was not strange that Maysie, in spite of a happy and generous nature, had taken advantage of the situation and become a little wilful. It is quite natural it should be so, when she so often heard Mother say, “Oh, give it to Maysie, she has been so sick, you know;” or, “Let Maysie do it, because she isn’t so strong as you are.”
So, when Hannah proposed that Maysie should be the one to tell Mother that they had been keeping a dog for the last week, and ask her to let them take it into the house to live, Maysie answered confidently,—
“All right, I’ll ask her.”
“That will settle my business,” said Toby to himself, as the children trooped up the dark and narrow stairways of the tenement-house. “No chance for me now to slip my collar. So here I shall have to stay, and good-bye to the fields I love so much.”
The children went up to the very top tenement of the house, and stopped a moment before opening the door.
“Give her the cakes before you tell her about the dog, Maysie,” said Johnny in a loud whisper.
“Of course I shall,” replied Maysie, shrewdly. “Don’t I know she will be more likely to give in after she sees the beautiful cakes?”
They found the table set for the simple supper, and their mother busily sewing. The father of the family worked in a machine-shop, and in busy seasons the work went on by night as well as by day; so the children saw little of their father, who, when he worked nights, was obliged to sleep part of the day.
The mother looked up as the children entered the room. Care and hard work had left their impress on her face, for it was thin and worn, but it brightened as her eyes fell on the faces of the happy children.
“I was afraid that something had happened to you,” said the mother. “What kept you so long?”
“We couldn’t find the house at first,” said Hannah; “and when we did find it, they made us wait until the lady looked at the work to see if it suited. She says she shall have some more for you in a few days.”
“And we stopped to look in at the windows of a fine shop where they sell all kinds of lovely cakes, and a beautiful, kind gentleman asked me would I like some, and I said I would, and he went inside and bought me a great bag full of the most beautiful ones you ever saw, and we brought one of each kind home to you, Mother dear,” said Maysie, putting the package of cakes in her mother’s lap.
“I hope you didn’t ask him for any?” said Mother.
“N—o,” replied Maysie, somewhat embarrassed. “I didn’t ask him for cakes, did I?” she asked, turning to her brother and sister.
“You didn’t ask him out and out, but you asked him for a cent, and he asked what did you want it for, and you said, ‘Cake,’” replied Hannah.
“Why, Maysie,” said Mother, reproachfully, “that is real begging! The gentleman thought you were a little beggar girl.”
“I can’t help it,” said Maysie, beginning to cry. “The cakes did look so nice, and I wanted to see if they would taste as nice as they looked. He needn’t have given me so many. I only asked for just one cent.”
“Well, don’t ever do it again, dear,” said Mother; for Maysie was making herself very miserable over the affair, and she couldn’t bear to see Maysie unhappy. “I guess that there’s no harm in doing it this once. I don’t wonder you wanted to get a taste of the nice cakes. It’s kind of tantalizing to see them before your very eyes and never to know how they taste.”
“I will never ask any one to give me a cent again,” said Maysie between her sobs; but Maysie was never unhappy long at a time, so she soon regained her cheerfulness, and came to the conclusion that she had not done such a very bad thing after all.
All this time Johnny had been standing behind the stove, keeping Toby out of sight. This was hard to do, for Toby was a restless little fellow, and Johnny knew that if he should move about much, his feet would make such a noise on the bare floor that he would be discovered before Maysie would have time to plead for him. Johnny at last succeeded in catching Maysie’s eye, and gave her to understand that it was high time to broach the subject; and Maysie, who never allowed the grass to grow under her feet, began at once.
“Mother dear,” she said, going up to her mother and giving her an affectionate hug and kiss, “we saw a poor little dog who didn’t have any home, and he was so cold and hungry! Can’t we just take him in? He won’t be any trouble at all.”
“No,” replied Mother, firmly, “we haven’t any room for dogs. They eat a lot, and are a great bother. No, you can’t.”
“But he is so little he will hardly eat anything, and we can each of us save him a little mite from our share every day, and then you see it won’t cost anything. Do say ‘yes,’ Mother dear;” and Maysie grew more affectionate than ever.
“No,” said Mother, firmly, “you mustn’t think of it. Father would never allow it. He doesn’t like to have dogs around.”
“We will keep him out of Father’s way,” pleaded Maysie. “He would be ever so much company for me when I am sick and have to stay in, and the others away at school. It’s awfully lonesome for me then.”
Mother thought of the many days when little Maysie was laid up with the colds that always lasted so long and made her so pale and weak, and she began to give way. It was true that a little playmate at those times would amuse the poor child, and after all it could not cost much to keep a little dog. The greatest obstacle in the way was Father. What would he say?
The children, eagerly watching their mother’s face, saw these signs of weakening, and were sure that they had gained their cause. Toby, too, with his true dog’s instinct, saw it even sooner than the children did, and before Johnny knew what he was about, gave a sudden jerk to the cord that held him. It slipped through Johnny’s fingers, and Toby, finding himself free, quickly ran up to the mother’s side, and sitting up on his hind legs, begged with all his might to be allowed to stay.
“Mercy on us,” exclaimed the astonished mother. “You don’t mean to say that you have brought him here already?”
Toby looked so small and thin, and his eyes had such a pleading expression, that the mother’s soft heart was touched. “You poor little fellow,” she said, picking him up and stroking him gently, “I think we can spare enough to keep you from starving.”
“We have kept him tied up in the shed a whole week,” said Johnny, boldly, “and it hasn’t cost a bit more. I wouldn’t mind being a little hungry myself, to save something for him.”
“I don’t think it will be necessary to go so far as that,” replied Mother. “What troubles me most is to keep him from annoying Father. You know he isn’t fond of dogs, and he mustn’t be troubled when he works so hard.”
“He is a real quiet dog,” said Johnny. “I don’t believe he will disturb him a mite.”
So Toby’s fate was settled, and he had a good supper and a share of the cakes besides, for Mother could not be prevailed upon to eat them all herself, and divided them with the others, Toby included.
Then came the important question of sleeping quarters. The cold shed was not to be thought of, and it ended by the indulgent mother consenting to his sleeping at the foot of Johnny’s bed. This was good news for Toby, who was always lonesome when he had to sleep all by himself. So the dog’s heart was no less happy than the children’s, and they all went cheerfully to bed so soon as it was decided what was to be done with Toby.
Johnny’s room was small and dark, not larger than a good-sized closet, but it seemed as luxurious as a palace to little Toby after the dark, cold shed. He was put to bed at Johnny’s feet after an affectionate leave-taking by the two girls. For a while he lay very still, but as soon as Johnny was asleep, he crept toward the head of the bed, and at last settled himself so closely to the sleeping boy that he could lick the hand that lay outside the bed-clothes.
“You are so kind to me,” said Toby to himself, “that I don’t believe I should have the heart to run away, even if I could. I should like to get a glimpse of the beautiful fields, though.”
So saying, the grateful little dog closed his eyes, and in a few moments he, too, was fast asleep, and dreaming that he was racing over his beloved fields, with Johnny close at his heels.
CHAPTER SIXTH
KIND-HEARTED Mr. Ledwell had already started inquiries concerning the blind boy’s mother. In a large city where there are so many institutions for receiving these unfortunate cases, this takes much time. Then, at the time the sick woman was taken away, she was unconscious, and, if she were still living, perhaps she was still too ill to tell her name. Mr. Ledwell also consulted an oculist in regard to Billy’s eyes, and he expressed an opinion that Billy’s sight might be restored. First, however, there must be an operation, and, to prepare for that, Billy must have the best of care, in order to become as strong as possible. Life in an engine-house, kind as the men were to him, was not the place to bring this about. He ought to have a woman’s care,—one who would bathe and dress him, and give him the most nourishing food to eat.
Such a woman Mr. Ledwell found. She had been nurse to Sam’s father, and had received so many kindnesses from the family that she was only too happy to return some of the favors she had received from them. She was now a widow, and lived in a quiet street not very far from the engine-house.
At first Billy took the idea of the change very much to heart. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his kind friends and Jack. He was a very obedient little fellow, though, and when the state of affairs was explained to him, and he was promised frequent visits from his friends, Jack included, he tried to make the best of it.
“Only think, Billy, you will be able to see the blue sky and the faces of your friends,” said Mr. Ledwell, “and your good friend Jack who saved your life; and by and by we shall find your mother, and you can see her, which will be the best of all.”
Billy had used the eyes of others for so long that he did not realize how much he should gain; but he tried to be as cheerful as possible, because he wanted to please those who had been so good to him.
One morning Mr. Ledwell and Sam called to take him to his new home. As Reordan dressed his little friend for the last time, it was well that Billy could not see; for the tender-hearted fireman was so sorry to part with his little charge that he looked very sad. Although Billy could not see the grief in Reordan’s face, he felt it in the tones of his voice and in the gentle touch of his hand, and the tears were running down the blind boy’s face. This sight was too much for tender-hearted Reordan, whose own eyes began to look very moist.
Sam looked from one to the other, and his usually bright, happy face grew serious. He tried hard to keep back the tears, but they would come, in spite of the effort he made. At last, with the tears running over his cheeks, he burst out,—
“I don’t see what there is to cry about. I am praying to God to make Billy see, and I know He will do it.”
“You are right, Sam,” said his grandpapa. “There isn’t anything to cry about. Billy is going to a pleasant home, and by and by he will see us all, and we shall find his mother, and he will be as happy as he can be.”
Jack all this time had been eagerly watching the faces about him. He could never bear to see anybody unhappy, and there he sat, softly crying to himself, and doing his best not to make any noise about it. He looked as if he wanted to remind them that all would come out right in the end, but they were not thinking of him. So, when Mr. Ledwell expressed exactly what Jack wanted to say, he could not contain himself any longer and broke into a loud howl.
“There!” exclaimed Reordan, “now that we have set Jack going, I guess it’s about time for us to stop. You’re all right, aren’t you, Kid?”
“Y—s,” sobbed Billy.
“So there isn’t any need to worry. Come on, Kid!” and suddenly catching up the little boy, Reordan seated him upon one of his broad shoulders, and set off at a rapid gait for the sleigh.
“Good-bye, Kid! Come and see us soon!” the firemen called out; and the blind boy answered their good-byes all the way to the sleigh.
There was such a bustle in starting, the horses, who had grown impatient at waiting, setting the sleigh-bells a-ringing as they pawed the snow and fidgeted about in their harnesses, that Billy grew quite excited, and became cheerful again. He waved his farewells as the sleigh drove off, and called out “Good-bye” so long as his voice could be heard.
“Poor little kid!” said Reordan; “I wouldn’t have believed that it would be so hard to part with him.”
Jack looked after the sleigh with sad eyes and drooping tail, then silently went back to the engine-house and lay down where he could hear the bell if it struck. He hoped it would, for Jack was so strictly business-like that he never liked to give way to his feelings. He lay still for some time, thinking of Billy’s pleasant ways and the good company he always was, and he grew sadder and sadder. Hardest of all was it to hear the firemen say that they didn’t believe the operation on his eyes would be successful, and that he would probably always be blind. Jack was beginning to think that he would not be able to bear the suspense much longer, when all at once the gong in the engine-house struck.
In an instant the firemen and Jack were all on their feet, every thought of the blind boy lost in the hurry and excitement of starting to the fire. A minute more, and the engine was on its way, the horses dashing along at full speed, with Jack tearing madly ahead, the notes of the bugle clearing the crowded streets as if by magic.
It was a hard fire to fight, for the building was high and lightly built, and by the time our engine reached the spot, flames were pouring out of the lower stories. Ladders were placed against the burning building, and the firemen mounted them to reach the roof. Among the men on the roof were those of Engine 33. Jack watched them hard at work, and longed to be with them. Sometimes they had carried him up the ladders, but not to such a height as this.
Jack felt hurt and neglected, for was he not one of the company? He was anxious, too, for how could they manage without him? It would not look well if any of his friends should see him standing there safely on the ground, while the lives of the rest of the company were in danger. Jack would have preferred to walk into the midst of the blaze rather than be thought a coward.
All at once a thought struck him. The next building was of the same height as the burning one. Jack remembered that when a building was burning in the lower stories, so that the firemen could not enter it, they often reached the roof through a neighboring one. The Fire-Dog always acted promptly, and in an instant he was at the door of the adjoining building. It was an hotel, and he had not many seconds to wait before some one came out. In a twinkling in crowded Jack, before the door had time to swing back, and he was on his way to the stairs.
In the excitement caused by the fire, nobody noticed a strange dog hurrying through the halls and up the stairways, and Jack soon reached the upper story. The firemen were there before him, and the skylight through which they had gone was left open. They were playing on the roof of the hotel as well as into the burning building.
Jack crossed over the streams of water that were running over the roof, and joined his company. Keeping as close as possible to his particular friend Reordan, he followed his every movement; and Reordan, hard at work, with no thought for anything but the duty before him, was glad of the dog’s company. This feeling was not expressed in words, but a glance of his eye as the Fire-Dog found him was as good as words for faithful Jack, who held himself ready to share the fireman’s fate, whatever it might be.
While hard at work, the chief espied Jack. “How did that dog get up here?” he asked in astonishment.
“Up the ladder, sir,” replied Reordan, promptly; for he never lost an opportunity to show off Jack’s intelligence.
“Well, that beats the Dutch,” said the chief. “It isn’t natural for a dog to mount ladders. He’ll come to a bad end.”
“The chief doesn’t like Jack,” said Reordan to himself. “I must keep him out of his way, or there’ll be an order to get rid of him. Keep close, Jack, old boy!”
Jack too understood by the chief’s tone and by the expression of his face that he was no favorite with him, for dogs often feel the way people think of them even more than people do. “I shall take care to keep out of his way,” said Jack to himself, as he followed his friend Reordan about.
The firemen’s work was over at last, and Jack betook himself to the street by the way he had come, and by the time his company had reached the street there was Jack, standing by the horses’ heads ready to start. The men, wet and tired, jumped upon the engine, and they started for home, Jack trotting leisurely along the sidewalk, as was his custom after a fire. Now that the excitement of the fire was over, he was beginning to think how lonely it would be in the engine-house without his little companion Billy.
“Nobody there to hug me and say, ‘Glad to see you back, you brave old Jack! I wonder if you saved any little boy’s life to-day, Jack.’ No, I shall not hear those pleasant words any more. How lonesome it will be!”
With these thoughts in his mind, whom should he see coming towards him but his old friend the bull-dog Boxer? He was a white dog, and he usually looked very clean, for he was always bathed once a week. He had told Jack about it, for he didn’t enjoy the operation, they scrubbed him so hard and used carbolic soap, which was very disagreeable to him. They usually managed to let some of the suds get into his eyes, and it made them smart dreadfully. This bath always took place on Monday, after the maids were through washing, and Jack smiled to himself as he recalled how Boxer often managed to be out of the way when washing morning came around. This was Monday morning, and Jack said to himself, “I’d be willing to bet a good-sized bone that Boxer got around that bath to-day.”
It certainly looked as if he had, for Boxer’s white coat looked very dingy against the white snow. It looked rough, too, and there was an ugly gash over one of his eyes. “He’s been in a fight,” said Jack to himself. “I don’t doubt he’s been having a beautiful time.”
So soon as Boxer espied Jack coming towards him his whole appearance changed. His tail stood up straight and stiff, his hair rose in a ridge along his spine, and he walked on tiptoe as if he were treading on eggs and didn’t want to break them. His eyes grew fierce-looking and seemed to bulge more than ever, although he had naturally very full eyes. He licked his chops, too, and seemed to swell to twice his usual size. All the time he looked straight ahead as if he didn’t see Jack at all.
“Now this is too absurd, to keep up such a feeling,” said Jack to himself, for thinking about little Billy had put him in a very soft mood. So he stopped just as he was opposite his old friend.
“Hallo, Boxer!” he called in a pleasant voice.
Boxer, however, did not return the salutation, although he settled down to a walk and seemed to be shivering.
“It seems to me that such old friends as we ought not to pass one another in this way. What’s the use in quarrelling? Life is too short for that. Come over this afternoon and see me. I’ve got some fine bones that have been buried a long time, and they must be about mellow by this time. Come over, and we’ll try ’em and talk over old times together.”
While Jack was making this amiable speech, Boxer was walking on tiptoe in a circle about him, and looking at him out of the corners of his eyes. When a dog does that it means that he wants to pick a quarrel, and he holds himself ready to spring on the other dog at the first disagreeable word he utters. Jack, however, would not utter that word, he was determined to make peace.
“There are no friends like old friends,” said Jack, pleasantly, “and I can’t afford to lose any of mine. Don’t let a few hasty words keep us apart any longer. I’m sure I’m sorry for my part of the affair, and I can’t say any more than that.”
Boxer stopped walking about in circles, and seemed to be swallowing something that stuck in his throat. The ridge on his back went down, too, and his tail didn’t stand up as stiffly. These are signs that a dog has given up his intention of fighting.
“The quarrel was not of my making,” he growled at last.
“I’m willing to take all the blame of it,” replied Jack, who was thankful to find his old friend coming around, for he knew that a bull-dog couldn’t be expected to do this at once. “I’ve lots to tell you. You don’t know anything about the blind kid who’s been stopping with us. I’ll tell you about him and about the little yellow dog Toby who was lost, and how I happened to come across him. I gave him your rules about slipping a collar. You know you taught them to me. I doubt if he’s a dog of enough character to carry it out. He looked kind of weak in his mind.”
“If he’s that kind of a dog, he’d better stay where he is,” growled Boxer.
“I wouldn’t wonder if he did,” replied Jack, “but we’ll see. He seemed to have a great respect for you when I told him about you, and said he should like to meet you.”
This was very gratifying to Boxer’s feelings, and his reserve began to thaw still more. Good-natured Jack saw the advantage he had gained, and took his leave, saying,—
“Well, be sure and come over this afternoon and we’ll talk things over. The blind kid’s story is very interesting. I should like to do something for him, and we’ll think what can be done. Two heads are better than one, you know, and yours is worth more than mine any day.”
“I’ll come around if I find time,” replied Boxer, for Jack’s tactful words had done their work, and Boxer’s voice had lost so much of its growl that it sounded quite natural again.
“Good-bye, then,” said Jack; and Boxer responded cheerfully, for at heart he was glad to be at peace with his old friend, although his nature was such that he could not have brought it about by himself, even if Jack had met him two-thirds of the way.
“Now he’ll go home and have his bath, and it will cool his brain, and he will be all right by afternoon,” said Jack to himself, as he betook himself to the engine-house. “He gave in pretty well for a bull-dog, and it didn’t hurt me a bit to take more than my share of the blame. My shoulders are broad enough to bear it.”
