Kitabı oku: «Jack, the Fire Dog», sayfa 8
CHAPTER FIFTEENTH
JACK’S new home was in a sea-coast town about an hour’s journey by rail. A baggage car does not afford much opportunity for seeing the country. Even if it did, Jack was not in a mood to enjoy it, for if ever there were a homesick dog, Jack was one. When the train stopped at Seaport and Jack was released, the wind was blowing fresh from the ocean, and the sun was shining brightly.
When Nature does her best to make things bright for us, we feel her cheery influence. So it was with Jack, and he began to look about him with some interest. The engine-house which was to be Jack’s future home was situated in the centre of the town. It was a small wooden structure, very unlike the fine brick building where Jack had lived so long. The men received him kindly and with interest, for Mr. Ledwell had written a glowing account of Jack’s sagacity and usefulness, but Jack did not feel happy. How could a dog of his years and experience be expected to feel at home in a new place and among new people?
Jack showed his gratitude in his dog’s way for all the kindness shown him, but his occupation was gone. He never ran with the engine again, for he couldn’t go with his old company. In vain the men tried to induce him to follow. He resisted every invitation, and watched the engine start for a fire with perfect indifference.
“He is only homesick. He will be all right when he gets used to us,” the men said; but they were mistaken. The faithful dog, who had stood by the company of Engine 33 so long and valiantly, lost all his interest in the Fire Department. When an alarm sounded, he would sometimes start to his feet from force of habit, but his interest went no further. He would sit and watch the engine leave without manifesting the slightest concern.
When this account of Jack reached the ears of his old friends of Company 33, they could hardly believe it, for they had supposed that he would feel at home in an engine-house. If he had been a young dog, he probably would have adapted himself quickly to the change, but the saying “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks” is true in most cases.
One day one of the engine men of the town of Seaport went to the city, and, in order to see what would come of it, took Jack with him. As they neared the engine-house which had been Jack’s home for so many years, a change came over him as he recognized familiar objects. His ears were pricked, his tail no longer drooped, and he hurried along at a rapid pace. When he reached the engine-house, he turned in at the entrance and ran upstairs as if he had never been away. The day with his old friends was a happy one, and Jack seemed as contented and as much at home as of old. The subject of his not caring to follow the engine was talked over, and one of the men, in order to try him, went below and sounded the alarm. In an instant Jack was on his way downstairs in the old way, and when they saw his disappointment at the trick played upon him, they were sorry for him, for it made them understand how much the Fire-Dog grieved for his old home.
After this visit Jack seemed more reconciled to his new surroundings. He soon made the acquaintance of all the children in town, and endeared himself to them by his gentle and affectionate ways. They began to bring him the things dogs are known to relish, as the children who lived near his old home used to do. Surrounded by so much kindness, no dog could have been unhappy, and Jack gradually became accustomed to his new life. It is true the excitement of running with the engine was no longer his, but other pleasures came into his life. Before long he became known to all the townspeople, and they began to tell anecdotes of his sagacity.
Mr. Ledwell, who felt a pity for the faithful dog who was banished from his old home, ordered the butcher in Seaport to furnish the Fire-Dog with bones, and every morning at the same hour Jack walked sedately to the butcher’s shop and got his bone. So it became a standing joke that old Jack had an account at the butcher’s.
After his visit to the city, when Jack was beginning to cultivate the social side of his nature by making and receiving calls, which he had little time to do in the busy life at the city engine-house, he made the acquaintance of a very affable young dog who greatly pleased him. So much did he enjoy the new friendship that he went to the greatest length a dog can go in the way of friendship,—he showed him the place where he buried his bones and treated him to a generous supply. The new acquaintance, however, proved to be unworthy of the trust reposed in him, and went secretly to the spot and helped himself.
When the Fire-Dog discovered that the new friend had taken this mean advantage of his generosity, he at once cut his acquaintance. When they met, as they frequently did, the Fire-Dog always looked straight ahead as if he didn’t see him at all. This course of behavior was very humiliating to the culprit, and he felt the disgrace much more than any other course Jack could have pursued, for nothing humiliates a human being or an animal so much as to be ignored.
Now that Jack was no longer a business dog, it was astonishing how much time he found in which to amuse himself. He had in the old days, as we have seen, found no time to indulge in the social pleasures in which dogs take so much delight, such as running the streets and calling on dog friends. The only pleasures he then had were the visits of the children who lived near the engine-house, an occasional call from Boxer, or a chance meeting with some dog passing through the city. As we have seen, he had not been popular with the dogs of his neighborhood, on account of the jealousy his important position excited in them. Now that he had retired to private life, this objection was removed, and the Fire-Dog’s loving and amiable nature made him a host of friends among his kind.
There were certain houses where Jack made daily calls. He went with great regularity to these houses, as if he felt the care of them and must see that everything was going on in a satisfactory manner. He always took up his position on the door-steps or piazza and waited patiently until some one invited him to enter. If nobody happened to notice that he was there, it seemed to make no difference to Jack. He would wait a reasonable time, and then take his leave, calling at the next house on his list.
Still another pleasure fell to Jack’s lot. He all at once took up the habit of going to church, and every Sunday Jack was to be seen at one of the churches in Seaport. He slipped in quietly and took a modest position in the back part of the church, where he was in nobody’s way. He sat very still through the service, usually taking short naps during the sermon, but he was always wide awake and attentive during the singing, which apparently afforded him great enjoyment. He went to one church after another, as if testing them to see which suited his taste the best, and finally settled upon the Methodist, attending services with great regularity. It was supposed to be the character of the music which made Jack choose this denomination, for the cheerful, hopeful vein that pervades the Methodist hymns seemed to be particularly acceptable to him.
This church-going habit was, of course, no objection, as the intelligent dog made no disturbance during service, and went and came with the greatest propriety. Before long, however, the children in the congregation discovered that Jack was a regular attendant at church, and from that time there was a craning of necks to obtain a look at the Fire-Dog, and whispered questions and other signs which showed that the young members of the congregation were more intent upon watching Jack than they were upon the service. When this state of affairs became apparent, word was sent to the engine-house that Jack must be kept at home on Sunday. So the following Sunday Jack was locked up in the engine-house, and a miserable morning he passed, softly whining to himself when he heard the church-bells summoning the congregation.
The next Sunday morning when the firemen looked for Jack to shut him up, the Fire-Dog was nowhere to be found. In vain they hunted and called; there was no response. But Jack attended services that morning at the Baptist Church. The following Saturday night Jack was secured, and he passed the next day locked up in the engine-house, a very unhappy dog; and the firemen thought they had at last found a way to keep the Fire-Dog away from church, by securing him on Saturday night. They were mistaken, however, for the next Saturday night not a trace was to be found of knowing Jack. The next morning he slipped into the Universalist Church as the swinging door was opened by a tardy arrival, and he took up his old position in the corner. He was one of the first to pass out of the open doors when the service was ended, and very few knew of his presence.
After this, the firemen decided it was not much use to attempt to keep Jack from attending church, so they let matters take their course; and as he went sometimes to one and sometimes to another of the churches, no further complaints were made. If he succeeded in slipping in when some one was entering, he took advantage of the chance and entered; but if no such opportunity offered, he seated himself outside where he could hear the singing. When the congregation came out, he joined them and walked sedately home.
After Jack’s departure, his old friend Boxer grieved for him long, and seemed to take comfort in visiting the Fire-Dog’s old home. He passed a great part of his time there, watching the men and the horses, and gradually came to be there most of the time. He seemed to feel it his duty to guard the property, and sat for hours in front of the house, watching the pigeons and sparrows when they came for the food that was regularly thrown out to them.
Here Boxer’s duty ended. He was observed to watch the engine start off to a fire with great interest, bustling about while the hurried preparations were going on, and barking himself hoarse with excitement as the horses dashed out of the engine-house and disappeared down the hill. He watched them with longing eyes, but could never be induced to follow them, much as he seemed to long to do it. The men concluded that he considered this had been his friend Jack’s privilege, and that he was too loyal to his old friend to usurp his rights.
Boxer also took great pleasure in the visits of the children who still came to the engine-house, and they soon became very fond of him, although at first the youngest among them were rather afraid of his big mouth and rather savage expression. Among his visitors were Sam and Billy, and many choice morsels of food he received from their hands.
So we see that although he did not take the Fire-Dog’s place, he had a place of his own in the hearts of the firemen and the young visitors who came so often to the engine-house.
CHAPTER SIXTEENTH
BILLY’S mother was soon well enough to be taken to Mrs. Hanlon’s pleasant home, and, surrounded by the comforts that kind woman knew so well how to give, she improved rapidly in health and spirits. The happiness of being once more with her blind boy did more than anything else to restore her lost health, for, although but a short time had elapsed since she awoke to consciousness after her severe illness and learned that she was separated from her boy, the anxiety and grief of her loss had delayed her recovery.
Her eyes now followed his every movement and change of expression, and again and again Billy had to repeat the story of his experiences. Sam continued to come every day to visit his friend, and the gay spirits and energy he brought with him helped the sick woman on the road to health. He often brought news of the Fire-Dog, too, and of Boxer, who had established himself at the engine-house. He told them also about the pigeons, the sparrows, the lively chickadees, and the other winter inhabitants of the park, and Billy’s mother was just as interested in them all as Billy himself was.
She could tell beautiful stories, too, of the time when she was a little girl and lived on a big farm. Sam never wearied of hearing about the calves and sheep and the clumsy oxen, who are so intelligent, although their minds work so slowly. Billy’s mother, too, knew how to draw pictures of all the animals she told them about; and although Billy couldn’t see them, Sam could, and it made Billy very happy to know that his mother could do something to give pleasure to the little friend who had done so much for him.
“If I only could see, I think I could draw things,” Billy said one day, “because I know just how they ought to go.”
“Do you think you could draw Jack?” asked Sam.
“I think I could,” replied Billy, “because my hands know how he looks.”
“Take a pencil and see how good a picture you can make,” said his mother.
So Billy made a picture of the Fire-Dog, as he thought he looked, and, considering that he was blind and had never been taught to use a pencil, he did very well.
“It looks just like Jack, all but the spots,” said Sam, “but of course you couldn’t make them because you couldn’t see them. I’ll paint them in for you.”
After this, Billy began to make pictures of the things he could pass his hands over, and it helped many an hour to pass pleasantly.
Soon came a time when the oculist whom Mr. Ledwell had consulted about Billy’s eyes decided that the boy’s health was now sufficiently established to make it safe to operate. So Billy was put to sleep and the operation performed, but for many days afterwards he had to be kept in a dark room. Without his mother to sit by him and take care of him, this would have been a trying time for Billy; but with her by his side he was perfectly contented to wait patiently for the time to come when he should be like the seeing children.
All this time Sam was not allowed to see the blind boy, and the time seemed very long to him. He had many boy playmates, but not one of them was so dear to him as the little blind boy to whom he had so patiently loaned his eyes. He was persuaded at last to try his new dog-cart, for by this time the snow had disappeared, and his black pony with the star on his forehead had been brought in from the country. There was a new russet harness, too, that became the pony beautifully, and Sam was allowed to drive alone in the park behind the big carriage, for the pony was gentle and Sam a good driver.
At last came a day when Sam was told he could visit Billy, and he was in a state of great excitement. “Do you suppose Billy can see yet?” he asked his grandmamma.
“You must find out and tell me about it when you come back,” replied Grandmamma; and Sam thought she looked just as she always did when she had a pleasant surprise for him.
So off Sam started, and he hurried along at such a pace that Mary had to almost run to keep up with him. As they approached the house, there stood Billy at the parlor window, looking out from among the plants. As Sam approached, he noticed that the blind boy did not stand still with the patient look on his face and his eyes looking straight ahead in the old way. His eyes followed Sam’s movements with an eager expression, as those look who are not quite sure they recognize a friend. As Sam ran up the steps, however, the blind boy’s face grew brighter, as if he were now sure Sam was the one he thought he was.
“Billy can see! Billy can see!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I am sure he can, Mary! Didn’t you see him look right at me and kind of smile?” and he burst into the house and into the parlor.
As Sam entered, Billy was standing in the middle of the room quite pale from excitement, but he didn’t say a word. He only looked at Sam very earnestly, at his bright eyes and rosy cheeks and his sturdy figure. He always before seemed so glad to see Sam and greeted him so affectionately that Sam didn’t know what to think of the change in Billy’s manner, which was shy, as if a strange boy had come to see him.
“You can see now, can’t you, Billy?” asked Sam.
“Yes,” replied Billy.
“Aren’t you glad you can see?” asked Sam; for he was disappointed to find that Billy did not express more joy at seeing him, when he himself was so glad for Billy. “Didn’t you know me when you saw me?”
“I thought perhaps it was you, but I wasn’t sure,” replied Billy.
“I should think you’d be as glad as anything, now that you can see,” said Sam.
Billy’s mother, who had seen the meeting between the two children, thought it time to explain matters to Sam.
“You see, Sam,” she said, “everything is so new to Billy that he must become accustomed to seeing.”
“He always used to know me just as soon as I came,” replied Sam, “and now he acts as if he didn’t know me at all.”
“He knew you by your step and your voice,” replied Billy’s mother, “but he didn’t know how you really looked before. His mind made a picture of you, but it was so different from the real you that he must get used to the new one.”
Sam understood now why Billy had looked at him as if he did not know him. “Of course he didn’t know me, because he had never seen me before,” he said. “I wonder what sort of a looking fellow he thought I was. What color did you think my eyes were, Billy?”
“I don’t know what seeing people call it,” replied Billy.
“You see, he will have to learn the names of the colors and a great many other things, too,” explained Billy’s mother.
“I should think he would know them,” said Sam. “Anne is only four years old, and she has known them ever so long.”
“Your little sister can see, you know,” said Billy’s mother.
“I suppose it makes a difference,” said Sam. “He’ll soon learn, though, won’t he?”
A new world was opened to Billy, and there were a great many things besides the names of colors for him to learn. Everything about him seemed so wonderful! The beauty about us, which those who are gifted with sight take as a matter of course, filled this newly awakened soul with wonder and admiration. The blue sky and the trees, whose buds were now bursting into their new life, the birds, and the blossoming plants in the parlor window, were a source of constant delight to him. His greatest pleasure was in drawing the objects that most pleased him. These were so well done that Mr. Ledwell gave him a box of paints, and the boy was so happy in this new work it was hard to get him to leave it long enough to take the exercise he so much needed.
“I want to see Billy as sturdy as Sam,” Mr. Ledwell said to his mother. “He must go to school and play with other boys, or we shall have a girl-boy, which we don’t want. There is nothing that makes a boy so independent as roughing it with other boys.”
“I am afraid they will ridicule him for being different from them,” said Billy’s mother. “You know he has been kept from other children on account of his blindness.”
“I know it, and that is why he needs the companionship of other boys,” said Mr. Ledwell.
“But boys are so rough, and sometimes they are unkind to sensitive boys like Billy.”
“Boys are not unkind as a general thing; they are only thoughtless. Billy will become over-sensitive if you keep him tied to your apron-strings. He will have to meet all kinds of people, you know.”
So one morning Billy was sent to school with Sam, who called for him. As Billy’s mother, standing at the open door, watched the two boys start off together, the contrast between them was very marked, and she felt that Mr. Ledwell’s advice was of the very best. Billy, with the blue glasses that he was obliged to wear when out of doors, his blond hair falling in curly rings about his delicate face, which was radiant with smiles because he was at last going to a “seeing school” like other boys, did indeed have the air of a boy who has not mingled with other boys.
Sam trudged along on the outside of the sidewalk, his strong, sturdy figure in striking contrast to Billy’s slender one. Billy’s mother watched them so long as they were in sight. Then she slowly entered the house, saying to herself,—
“Poor boy, what a hard time he will have before he gets to be like other boys!”
Meanwhile, the two boys went on, Sam feeling very important to be entrusted with the care of Billy, and chatting all the way about his school-life. His grandmother had sent Mary with him, fearing the two boys would be careless in crossing the streets, but Sam’s dignity was hurt at this precaution.
“I am not a baby, Mary, to have a nurse tagging around after me,” he said, as soon as he was out of sight of his grandmother’s window, “so you can just go back again.”
This Mary did not dare do, as she had directions to keep with the boys; so after a serious conversation between her and her independent charge, they compromised matters in this way: Mary was to be allowed to follow at a respectful distance on the opposite sidewalk, provided she would not attempt to speak to Sam or make any sign to show that she had any connection with him. In this way Mary could keep an eye on her two charges and be on hand if her services were required. Sam threw occasional side glances in Mary’s direction to see if she were keeping the contract faithfully.
The two boys proceeded on their way for some time, Sam using great caution in piloting his friend across the streets, for Billy was afraid of being run over by the teams and carriages which were so constantly coming. The city sights were so new to the poor child, it was hard for him to calculate how long it would take for the teams he saw coming their way to reach them. This gave him a timid, undecided air, and Sam would often say when Billy stopped, fearing to cross, “Come along, Billy, there’s plenty of time to get over.” At this Billy would gain courage and start, but he always reached the other side before Sam did.
“Whatever you do, Billy, don’t ever stop half-way across and run back again,” Sam said, when Billy had been particularly nervous. “If you do, you’ll be sure to be run over, because the drivers don’t know what you are going to do. It would be better to stand still and let them turn out for you. They won’t run over you if you stand still.” And Billy, who thought Sam knew all about such things, promised to take his advice.
At the next corner they met a group of older boys on their way to school. They were in the mood to find amusement in anything that came their way, and as soon as they caught sight of the two little boys, one of their number called out, “Hullo, Blue Glasses!”
The color came into Billy’s cheeks, and Sam looked very defiant.
“Trying to be a girl? Look at his nice curls! Ain’t they sweet?” said another.
“What’s your name, Sissy?” called the largest of the group, a boy several years older than the two little boys. At the same time he took hold of Billy and made him stop. “What’s your name, I say!”
The slight and sensitive Billy, tightly held by the larger and stronger boy, was about to reply meekly, when Sam called out, “Don’t you tell him your name! It’s none of his business what your name is!”
“Oh, it isn’t, is it! He shall tell me his name and you shall tell me yours, too, and tell it first;” and letting Billy go, he seized Sam by the collar. “Come, out with it! Now what is it?”
“It’s none of your business,” replied Sam, stoutly, struggling to free himself from the strong grasp of the boy.
“Come, let the little fellow alone,” said one of his companions.
“He’s got to answer my question first. Come, youngster, what’s your name?” and he gave him a shake as he spoke.
“You let me alone!” cried Sam, who was working himself into a very excited state, and trying his best to free himself. “You just wait until I get hold of you!”
Billy had been standing helplessly by, wanting to assist Sam, but not knowing how to do it. At last, when he saw his best friend struggling in the grasp of the big boy, he suddenly became desperate, and, throwing down his luncheon basket, flew at the big boy and began hammering at his back with his weak fists.
All this had taken place in a much shorter time than it takes to relate it, and Mary, from the other side of the street, had seen what was going on, but she feared that Sam would resent her interference, so she watched to see that matters did not go too far. When Billy made his sudden attack, she quickly crossed over and released Sam from the big boy’s grasp.
“It’s a fine business for a big fellow like you to be after picking a quarrel with two little fellows! Why don’t you take one of your own size?”
The boy did really seem to be ashamed of himself, particularly as his friends did not uphold him, and he joined them in rather a shamefaced manner. Sam, however, was not satisfied with the settlement of the quarrel, and made a rush after him, but Mary caught him in time and held him fast.
“I’ll tell you what your name is,” he shouted, while he struggled to free himself from Mary’s tight grasp. “It’s a mean old bully! And you just wait till the next time I get a chance, that’s all!”
“It’s a shame for little boys to be fighting like the beasts that don’t know any better,” said Mary. “What would your grandmamma say if she came to hear of it? She would think it was just awful!”
“I don’t know about that,” said Sam, shrewdly.
Mary did not cross to the other side of the street again, but kept with her charges, and, until the schoolhouse was reached, improved the time in lecturing the two boys on the sin of fighting. Billy listened very meekly, and even Sam received the lecture in silence; but when Mary left them at the door, he said very seriously,—
“Mary, I sha’n’t begin a fight, but if a fellow hits me he’s got to look out!”
When Mary on her return related the story to Sam’s grandmamma and grandpapa, and told how valiantly Billy had gone to the rescue of his friend, Sam’s grandpapa only smiled with his eyes and said, “He’ll do!”
