All the World Over: Interesting Stories of Travel, Thrilling Adventure and Home Life

BY SARA E. CHESTER.

PART II.

BUT it was his last hurrah; for puppies, like people, view the world through their own eyes, and where their brother had seen, approved, and desired, they gazed quite indifferently. Bob and Billy carried them out-doors for a broader view of life; but could not persuade them that sunshine and verdure were more to be desired than two snug little beds underground. Better death, with no good Puppy-land to go to; better an end of all things, than life with its ups and downs, its roses and thorns, the uncertain joys and certain ills that puppy flesh is heir to—such seemed their reflections as they gazed upon the world with languid, melancholy eyes. They shunned their brother’s gay society; they refused food and wailed with hunger; they partook of a little and wailed with pain; one died in the evening, yawning and stretching; the other in the morning, kicking and squealing; two new graves were dug under the apple-tree: and one puppy fell heir to the love of six.

“I wouldn’t care so much if they hadn’t opened their eyes,” said Billy; “but I thought they were sure to live then. It’s discouraging, I declare; I’m afraid it’s going to end like the ten little Injuns, ‘And then there were none.’”

“No, it won’t,” said Bob. “We’ll raise this fellow.”

“Yes,” said Timothy, “he’s going to live.” When Timothy spoke so positively one could afford to hope.

“Do you hear?” said Billy, capturing the lively puppy, who was behaving like anything but a mourner after the funeral. “We have hopes of you, sir; and beware how you disappoint us. See what obstinacy has done, and take warning by your brothers. I advise you to make the most of all the life you’ll ever get, for it isn’t soul that gives you such a knowing look. There is nothing behind those eyes but brains; and brains die out as much as bodies, sir. Bob,” he exclaimed, “see him look at me. Don’t tell me he doesn’t understand!”

“I wouldn’t risk such an opinion,” said Bob. “They say that eyes are the windows of the mind. Now that he’s got his windows open why shouldn’t you take looks back and forth.”

“Pretty good,” said Billy. “Duke has spied out the fact, somewhere, that I’m his master.”

They had named him, in contempt of Timothy, and in anticipation of the rank which was expected to assert itself with his growth.

“He certainly makes a difference between you and the rest of us,” said Bob.

The difference became more marked each day. In no one’s hand did Duke rub his little nose so often as in his master’s; no one else’s cheeks were licked so affectionately. It was Billy that he trotted after, and squealed for, when the big gate separated them and his master’s face was set towards home. These signs of preference were very flattering to Billy, but also caused him pangs, for the fonder he became of the dog, the more he feared to lose him. Although he increased rapidly in bulk, strength, vivacity and intelligence, it was a long time before Billy could cease to be alarmed if he appeared languid, over-slept, or ate lightly. However, he developed at last into such a sturdy fellow that anxiety on his account was absurd. All lingering doubts as to his loyalty, also, came to an end, for Billy had feared that his best affections might be won over to the master who fed him. But Duke knew his own master, and did not seem disposed to inquire why he was banished from his table.

The devotion of “Bob’s dog” to Billy was a constant source of surprise to the boys who had not heard the secret of the mastership. Wherever Billy went, the dog was sure to go—unless ordered to the contrary, for whatever Billy ordered, the dog was sure to do. His absolute obedience, rather than natural talent, made him the accomplished fellow which he became. Billy’s will was his dog’s will, and so great was the patience of both teacher and scholar that in course of time there was hardly a dog in town so skilled as Duke in leaping, vaulting, fetching and carrying, so at home on land and water—whether summoned to scour a field, explore a bush, stem a tide, or save a boy from drowning.

Assured, then, of his life and loyalty, proud of his character and his accomplishments, Billy had but two things to regret: that Duke was a plebeian and an exile.

He had grown to full size, and neither developed into pointer, spaniel nor mastiff; into setter, Irish or English; into hound, fox, blood or grey. Indeed, he had not the positive traits which would admit him into any family, however humble. Duke was hopelessly “mongrel.”

Considering his stubby paws, blunt nose, ungainly shape and indefinite color on the one hand, and on the other his intelligence, good-humor, honor and fidelity, Billy could not but learn a gradual lesson on the folly of judging from appearances. Never, he reflected, was canine exterior more plebeian, canine character more noble. So, though something of an aristocrat by nature, radical principles slowly worked in Billy’s mind, until one day, at Timothy’s suggestion that he should change Duke’s name, he was prepared to answer:

“No, sir! I believe people ought to rank according to their actions. What difference does it make how you happen to look, or what family you happen to be born into, if you’re a good fellow? My dog and I are Americans, and we’ll stand by our principles, and take rank according to the way we behave; won’t we, old fellow? I claim that he’s a duke in character, Tim; and he’s handsome enough to suit me. I wouldn’t have a spot on him changed now.”

To which plebeian Timothy, with an approving smile, replied:

“There’s no danger of his getting stolen, neither, Billy, for the price he’d fetch in market; no more’n he’ll get shot or poisoned for his bad temper.”

“No great loss without some small gain,” said Billy. “I’m satisfied, except for one thing, Tim.”

That one remaining cause of dissatisfaction Timothy appreciated. He knew that Billy would never be contented to have the dog which he had saved from death, reared and educated an exile from his home; and, though he and Bob would have missed Duke from their table, they made various plans for getting him admitted to Billy’s.

“I was screwing up my courage to lay the case before father,” said Billy, “when out he came with something about that ugly little dog of Bob’s that he’d seen around our house. He warned me not to encourage him—but I can tell you it’s hard work to keep Duke away, though he’s such an obedient fellow, and the cook never feeds him.”

“Billy,” said Bob, “he’ll have to save your father’s life. That’s the way the enemies in books always get into favor. Can’t you have him pull him out of the water one of these windy days?”

“That’s not such a bad suggestion,” said Billy; “the best you’ve made yet. What do you think, Duke? Could you swim a mile and pull him ashore? I believe he’s equal to it, Bob; and you know father’s always tipping over. He generally rights himself, to be sure; but he may be glad of a little assistance some time. I’ll keep Duke trained on bringing logs ashore, and we’ll be on the lookout windy mornings; for father never misses a breeze.”

But many a windy morning a dog and his master saw a stout gentleman set sail in a frail bark on a crafty sea; many a morning they roamed the beach, practicing on drowning logs, as they watched the wind sport with a distant sail; and however the sail might swell and veer, and lie over toward the waves, it always came erect and stately into port, while a stout gentleman stepped safely ashore.

“The winds are against us, Duke,” said Billy. “There’s no use in fooling around the shore any longer. I’m going to make a bold strike to-day; and if father won’t listen to reason, we’ll just have to give it up—unless we run away and live together. What do you say to that?”

Duke replied by a series of barks which Billy understood to signify assent.

“We’ll try father first,” said Billy.

He waited till his father was in his after-dinner mood. He followed him from the dining-room to the piazza, watched his chair go back on two legs, his feet go up on the railing, his cigar take its place in his teeth, the smoke curl and climb, the newspaper turn and turn, and still the courage of the boy on the steps did not rise to the occasion. It was not until the chair came down on four feet, and the stump of cigar dropped over the railing, that Billy ventured to speak:

“Father!”

He looked so well pleased with life as he walked, portly and smiling, towards his hat, that Billy thought now, if ever, he would be willing to please his son.

Hats of various shapes and degrees hung upon the rack. There was the broad-brimmed straw in which Judge Jenks appeared the country squire; there was the little cloth cap in which he rode the waves a gallant mariner; there was the soft felt which suited rough-and-ready moods; there was the second-best beaver; and there was the best beaver, known to Billy and his sisters as the “Pet and Pride.”

The choice to-day fell on the “Pet and Pride.”

“Good luck!” thought Billy. “I can get anything out of him when he’s petting that hat.”

“Well, my son,” said papa, holding the hat in one hand and passing the other caressingly around and around the crown, until the fur lay in silkiest smoothness.

But Billy waited until the hat was on, and papa surveyed the result in the mirror. It gave him an elegant judicial aspect, and was vastly becoming beyond a doubt.

“Now’s my time,” thought Billy.

“Father,” said he, “I’d like to have a little talk with you—a little discussion on a certain subject.”

“What is it?” said papa. “The Greenback movement? Or have you been catching Communism from Pat? What is it, Billy? Have you got the questions of the day settled for us? Which shall it be: hard or soft money, free-trade or the tariff?”

“I’m not just up on those matters, sir,” said Billy. “It’s a different subject.”

“Well,” said papa, giving the “Pet and Pride” a parting glance, ere he walked to the door, “well, Billy, what is it?”

“It’s—it’s—dogs, sir,” said Billy, meekly.

Stern and cold grew the beaming face beneath the “Pet and Pride.” Aversion was in the tones which repeated Billy’s word “Dogs!”

“And what have you to say on this subject?” inquired his father; “that they are faithful, trusty beasts? I tell you they are treacherous and villainous; that you wish to own one for no reason but that they are odious to your father and you are determined to have your own way! I reply better than you deserve, and offer you once more a goat, or a pair of them.”

“Thanks. It’s a dog or nothing, sir,” said Billy.

“As you please,” said his father. “But understand that this subject is not to come up again. Nothing could induce me to have a snarling, snapping, vicious, treacherous cur on the premises; and you are never to mention dogs to me again, sir.”

Billy stalked out of one gate and his father out of another.

“He has the Jenks will,” reflected his father, not without an emotion of pride. “A dog or nothing, indeed!”

But the Jenks will did not support Billy very bravely as he walked on towards Bob’s; and by the time he reached the gate, anger, pride and all harsh, inspiring feelings had given place to sadness. Bob told Timothy afterwards that he had never seen Billy so nearly “floored.” He did not need to ask the result of his interview; but proposed that he should accompany him to the post-office, whither he was hastening with a letter.

The wind which had lured Billy to the shore in the morning still rose in fitful gusts, playing tricks with all detached objects, greatly to the delight of Duke who ran in pursuit of every flying thing.

Billy’s eyes followed the dog gloomily.

“If it wasn’t for that leg of father’s that got bitten thirty years ago!” he said. “Speaking of angels, there goes father now. Hold on to your hat, Bob.”

Each boy seized his hat as a sudden gust came sweeping down the street. But papa, who had appeared in view a block ahead of them, walked calmly on, as if assured that no impertinent breeze would dare molest the “Pet and Pride.” He was so confident and careless that the wind could not resist taking him down a little, and lifting the hat whirled it about his head.

The uncovered judge put forth his hand, but the movement was too grave and deliberate; the wind wished to play tag, and it takes two to play at that game, so the judge must be taught how. As the deliberate hand almost reached the hat, off skipped the wind with it, compelling the judge with a stately skip to follow. But he could be taught even swifter motions than those; a second time he almost reached the hat, and it moved on with a hop and a whirl; while he, with something like a hop and a whirl, moved after. But still the hat, so near his hand, was not in it. His indignation rose. He could not allow matters to proceed after this unruly fashion. With a plunge he pounced on his property—when, lo! it lay across the ditch in the dust of the road, while his tormentor laughed at him!

But no, it was not the wind that laughed after all, though it seemed quite human enough to do so—the shrill tones proceeded from three open mouths on the corner. How dare those ragged urchins lift up their voices in derision of a Judge of the Supreme Court! Better, perhaps, to lose the hat than gratify them by pursuing it. But it was his “Pet and Pride”—by no means an inexpensive affair; a city hat, only to be replaced by a day’s journey; and then he might never find such an easy fit again.

After two or three somersets the hat stood still, unhurt, except for a little dust. The wind fell as suddenly as it had risen, and the judge was enabled to recover his property without sacrificing his dignity. At least so he flattered himself as he walked at his usual gait over the ditch, into the road. He had not calculated on another gust; and when the hat was actually snatched almost out of his grasp again, rather than become the sport of those rascals on the corner he decided to let it go, and run the risk of getting it at the next ebb of the wind.

He was turning away when he happened to see near the corner a big, black mud-puddle, lying in wait for unwary victims of the wind. If the wind and water had conspired to tease him they could not have succeeded better. While the hat was blown directly towards the puddle, the water was at the same time lashed upward to show him how black and muddy it was, how totally destructive to hats.

He felt tempted to pursue the “Pet and Pride” at a flying gait; but as he paused to consider the boys on the corner, the mud-puddle lost its terrors in a new object which appeared upon the scene. This was nothing less than a dog that came galloping after the hat with almost the speed of the wind. Better that the “Pet and Pride” should be drowned in the muddiest depths than become a puppy’s plaything, thought the judge. It was too late for him to rescue it by this time. The hat was doomed to the dog or the water—the water he sincerely hoped, as he prepared to seek the nearest store where a covering for his head could be found.

But as he was turning away he observed that the chances were in the dog’s favor. It was wonderful to see those four little paws fly over the ground. They were gaining on the wind, no doubt about it. Gaining, gaining—till the race was so close that one must wait a moment and see it out. “Ah, the rascal has it! No, you little scamp, you’re beaten! You didn’t count on that gust, sir!”

But as the judge so soliloquized, a familiar voice behind him shouted, “Fly, Duke, fly!” With a leap those four winged feet overtook the gust; and there stood the dog at the edge of the mud-puddle, carefully holding the “Pet and Pride” in his teeth.

The judge recognized that “ugly little dog of Bob’s” at the same time that he recognized his son’s voice; and presently he discovered that the race had been run not for his torment, nor for mere amusement, but for the purpose of rescuing and restoring his property.

“Well, well,” said the judge, as Duke trotted up and presented the hat to him; “well, well, Bob, you’ve a fine dog, sir; a gentlemanly fellow, upon my word. You’ve trained him well, Bob. He does you credit, he does indeed.”

Bob rapped Billy with his elbow, as much as to say, “Here’s your golden opportunity; speak up!”

“He’s mine, sir,” Billy blurted out.

“Yours!” said the judge, removing his hand from the canine head he was actually condescending to pat; “yours!”

Encouraged by another rap Billy continued:

“You can’t say that he’s ever given you any trouble, father. He’s never eaten a mouthful at home.”

“What do you think of such deception, sir?” said his father. “Do you mean to tell me that you have been boarding him out?”

“No, sir; he lives on charity. Bob supports him.”

“Charity!” said his father. “What do you mean, sir?”

But as he dusted the “Pet and Pride,” caressing it as of old, he took a kindly peep at the little head by his knee, and gave it one more pat before moving away.

“You’re all right, old boy,” said Bob. “You’ve had your chance; that wind did you a good turn, after all. It doesn’t sound quite so fine to say Duke saved his hat as his life, but it amounts to the same in the end. Just keep cool, Billy, and you’re all right.”

It was not very easy to keep cool, however. Billy hoped and watched and waited a whole day before the subject of dogs was mentioned again.

“Where did you get him?” asked his father, as the smoke began to curl from his after-dinner cigar.

“Him?” said Billy, confusedly. “Oh, Duke? I found him in the graveyard, with six more. The mother had left them, and I couldn’t let them die—though the rest did, after all. But we succeeded in raising Duke; and I couldn’t part with him after all that, sir.”

“Don’t attempt to excuse your obstinacy,” said his father, inwardly commenting on “that Jenks will.” “He’s a trained animal, I see. That is where the time has gone which should have been devoted to Latin. A very bad report that last, sir. Is he anything of a mouser?”

“Splendid!” said Billy.

Nothing more was said until the “Pet and Pride,” after the usual amount of caressing, was surveyed in the mirror—then tender memories prompted papa to say, gruffly:

“He is not to live on charity like a beggar. Shut him up in the store-room, if he’s good for anything, and let him have it out with the rats. But keep him away from me, sir. Let him be fed in the basement, but let him understand that he is not to come above ground where I can see him; and remember that he is on trial—distinctly on trial.”

The glad news was at once conveyed to Duke, Bob and Timothy; and Billy was a happy boy—for a few days. Like other mortals of whom we hear, having gained much he wished to gain more. He was not satisfied that Duke had conquered the rats and won the servants’ affections. He wished his higher accomplishments to shine in higher circles. He wanted his dog admitted to the full privileges of citizenship. He longed to introduce him to his own room on the second floor, and he found stern discipline necessary to keep him from the first floor.

Having investigated the kitchen, Duke felt a natural curiosity as to the parlor, and he was often caught on the top stair, peeping into the hall. Billy’s sisters called him up, but could not make him disobey his master. However he might stretch his neck, wag, cry and peer wistfully, he could not be tempted to put a paw on the hall floor.

“Where did he learn obedience?” said the judge one day, after observing his daughters’ vain attempts. “Certainly not of his master. But perhaps you know the secret, Billy, and can give it to me to try on my son. I should like to see if there’s anything to be done with that will of his.”

“Duke has never had any teacher but me, sir,” said Billy. “Shall I forbid his coming on the stairs?”

“Come up here,” said the judge, snapping his fingers towards Duke. “Let’s see what you think of this hall before we send you down.”

But to his surprise the dog did not obey.

“Come!” said Billy; and at the word he leaped toward his master, then looked about for some means of expressing gratitude. Spying a newspaper, and newspapers and elderly gentlemen being associated in his mind, he fetched it and presented it to the judge. The next noon he was summoned again. By that time he had discovered that the newspaper was taken with the cigar, and no sooner saw the one produced than he ran in search of the other. After a few days it happened that the judge dropped all responsibility in regard to his paper. He took his cigar and sat down, assured that wherever the paper might be, to what remote corner of the house any careless member of the family might have taken it, that knowing little dog would find it for him.

Having proved that he was a useful member of society, Billy wished Duke to display his higher accomplishments, and one day introduced to the dining-room what was known down-stairs as the Circus. Judge Jenks was greatly entertained, and the next day undertook to be circus-manager himself. He succeeded so well that it became an after-dinner custom for Duke to speak, leap and dance at his bidding. It was funny to see the portly gentleman whistling sprightly airs, with the greatest gravity of countenance, while the little dog, with countenance as grave, spun around on two feet, wholly intent upon keeping time to the tune. He would become a lion, monkey, or squirrel at command, but the last was his favorite character, as it involved nuts, which he must sit upright and nibble. After his fondness for almonds was discovered Billy noticed that they were seldom missing from dessert without being called for. By many little indications he was persuaded that Duke’s merits had overcome his father’s prejudices. But after all Duke was only a dog, with faults as well as virtues; and while he was still on trial Billy could not help fearing that some mischievous prank might end the trial unfavorably. He waited many days, hoping that his father would declare the probation ended; but at last there came a day when Duke gave a table-cloth a shaking which brought the judge’s favorite meerschaum pipe to ruin. Billy considered the misfortune fatal.

“It’s come at last. All’s up with us,” he thought, as he administered the punishment customary for such offences. But what was his surprise to hear his father say, sternly:

“That will do; that will do, sir! Who left the pipe on the table? You had better find out and save some of your blows for the chief offender. How would you fare if I should deal out justice to you at that rate? Dogs will be dogs, sir; and Duke’s none the worse for an occasional overflow of spirits.”

“Thank you, father, for defending my dog,” said Billy, warmly. “I was afraid it might end in my having to part with him.”

“Part with him?” said his father. “A very good suggestion. The best thing you can do. I advise you to part with him by all means. I should recommend an elderly gentleman who has learned to temper justice with mercy; one who needs a cheerful, young companion, competent and willing either to wait upon him or amuse him; one who will promise the dog a permanent home, and agree not to be too hard upon him for trifling offences. Allow me to recommend Judge Jenks, sir.”

“With Judge Jenks’ permission, I’ll take the home and keep the dog,” said Billy.

“We will call it a bargain,” said his father, his eyes twinkling as he added, “remarkable what a difference there is in dogs; eh, Billy?”

“Yes, sir!” said Billy.