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!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH
BILLY’S mother was now so well that she was eager to begin work. “You have done so much for us,” she said to Mr. Ledwell, “that I cannot accept any more.”
“Have you thought of anything special to do?” asked Mr. Ledwell.
“I have thought a great deal about it,” she replied, “and I should be glad of any work that will support us. Since I have been so long idle I have realized, as I never did before, the fact that there are many children thrown upon the charity of the world as my boy was, but very few fall into such kind hands as he did. There are institutions to care for just such children, and if I could get a situation in one of them I should put my whole heart into the work, remembering the helpless position my boy was in. In caring for other forsaken children I would work off some of the deep sense of gratitude I feel.”
“It is a good scheme,” replied Mr. Ledwell, “and we will try to find a place for you. Feeling as you do, you are just the one to look after the poor little waifs. It takes time, though, to obtain such a position, and meantime I can give you employment in my business.”
So Billy’s mother began work at once, and at the end of the first week was able to hand to Mrs. Hanlon a sum for her own and Billy’s board.
Billy gained in strength and health every day, and soon was able to lay aside the blue spectacles.
“I should think you would have your hair cut just as short as it can be,” Sam one day suggested to his friend. “You see, it curls so that the fellows think it makes you look like a girl.”
So Billy gave his mother no peace until his hair was cut so short that there was no chance for it to form the curly rings to which the other boys so much objected, and Sam pronounced it a great improvement.
With the short hair Billy also acquired an air of confidence which made him look more like other boys, and he was no longer singled out as a butt for their rough jokes. He learned very fast, and his love for drawing helped to make him popular; for on stormy days, when the boys could not go out at recess, it was a great pleasure to have Billy draw pictures for them. His greatest pleasure was to draw on the blackboard, and his sketches, done with a bold, free hand, often gave as much pleasure to the teacher as they did to the pupils.
Before long came the time for Sam to go with his grandparents to their country home. Such good friends had the two boys become, that a separation would have been very hard for both. They were so unlike that each had a good influence on the other. Sam, full of spirit and health, would much rather spend his time out of doors than in learning his lessons, while Billy liked nothing better than to sit indoors, working hard at his drawing, or conscientiously studying his lessons, that he might keep up with the other children who had not been deprived of the use of their eyes.
Mr. Ledwell, who looked out so well for every one, proposed to Billy’s mother that she should live in a little house on his grounds that had been built for his gardener’s family. The present gardener, however, had no family, and lived with the other men employed on the place, and the house would make a cosey, comfortable home for Billy and his mother.
The latter by this time had obtained the situation she so much desired,—which was to look after homeless children. Her duty was to take these little waifs to homes that were willing to receive them, and to see that the little ones were happy and well cared for after being placed. This, of course, took her away from home all through the day, and she often returned tired from her day’s work. Giving so much motherly care to the neglected ones, who needed it so sadly, prevented her from giving her own boy the care he ought to have, and a pleasant way out of the difficulty was found by having good Mrs. Hanlon come down to the little cottage and take care of it and of Billy. In this way Billy was not neglected, and his mother could earn money for their support.
It was a happy day for the two boys when they alighted at the little station of Seaport. It was quite a distance to Sam’s grandpapa’s place, so they drove there in one of the station carriages. Billy noticed how glad all were to see Sam. Everybody seemed to know him, and to have a pleasant word for him, from the station master down to the colored porter. Sam was just as glad to see them, too, and asked after their families and how they had been through the long, cold winter.
It made Billy very happy to see how much everybody loved Sam, and for every kind word and look given to his friend he was more gratified than if he had received them himself. The grateful boy never forgot for a moment how kindly and generously his friend had received him when he was blind and forsaken.
As they passed the different houses in the village, Sam was kept busy in hailing old acquaintances and hearing their cordial “Glad to see you back again.”
They passed the engine-house, and there on the sidewalk in front of it lay Jack the Fire-Dog. Although he had never seen him before, Billy knew him even before Sam’s keen eyes discovered him. At the boys’ call the dog pricked up his ears and gazed searchingly at them; then, with all the power of his eloquent eyes and wagging tail, he tried to express his joy at meeting these old friends.
Of course the boys couldn’t go by without stopping for a moment,—no human boys could do that. So out they piled in a hurry, and before the carriage had come to a stop they were hugging and caressing their faithful friend. “Does he look anything as you thought he did, Billy?” asked Sam.
“Yes, just, only a great deal handsomer. Do you suppose he knows I am a seeing boy now, Sam?” asked Billy, anxiously.
“I shouldn’t wonder if he did, because I saw him looking at your eyes awful sharp the first thing.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if he did, either,” said one of the firemen who had witnessed the meeting between the old friends. “He’s awfully knowing.”
They could not stop so long as they would have liked, however, because the driver of the station carriage was in a hurry to get back; so they had to leave the Fire-Dog. “You shall come to see us every day,” Sam called out, as the carriage started again, for the dog’s wistful eyes said how sorry he was to have them go; and the Fire-Dog did not wait for a second invitation, but presented himself about five minutes after the boys had reached home.
“First of all, I must take you about to show you everything on the place,” Sam said to Billy. So off they started, the boys followed closely by Jack, who seemed much older than he had in the days when he used to run with Engine 33.
First of all, there were the stables to be visited, where in a paddock was the black pony with the star on his forehead. He came trotting up to the fence to see the boys and rub his nose against them and beg for sugar. They had no sugar to give him, but a few handfuls of grass did just as well. After he found they had no more for him, he lay down and rolled over; then, after shaking himself, he came for more grass.
These stables were wonderful places, and had in them everything that boys, and most girls, love. There was a new colt only a few weeks old, but as tall as the black pony with the star in his forehead, although his legs were longer and not so prettily formed, and he had a short, bushy tail. Clumsy as he looked, however, he could run fast, for, after looking anxiously at the boys for an instant with his large, mild eyes, he darted off at full speed to join his mother at the other end of the field.
There was a litter of pups belonging to one of the grooms, young bull-terrier pups, with little fat, round bodies and very blunt, pink noses; and the mother dog evidently thought amiable Jack a fierce ogre, who wanted to eat them up, for she flew at him with great fury when he only wanted to admire them. So she had to be shut up in the harness-room, where she tore at the door and growled and barked so long as the boys and Jack stayed near her pups.
There were two little kittens, too, and they also seemed to consider innocent Jack a dangerous sort of fellow, for they arched their backs and spit at him whenever he happened to look their way.
When the stables had been explored, the two boys and Jack ran down to the beach. The tide was out, and they could walk far out on the smooth sand. This was very beautiful, but Sam’s favorite nook was the little cove where the fiddler-crabs lived. He was never tired of watching them at low tide, and trying to find out whether each had his own particular hole to hide in, or whether they darted into the first one they came to when surprised.
The two boys each singled out a crab and tried to keep his eyes on him to watch his movements, but they all looked so much alike that it was very confusing, and after an hour spent in this way Sam was no wiser than he was before.
Then the shells that had been washed up in the hard storms of the winter before, how beautiful they were, and how exciting it was to pick them out of the line of seaweed in which they were entangled! Billy had never dreamed of such pleasures, and they were as good as new to Sam, now that he had a companion to enjoy them with him. Thus the two happy boys spent the forenoon, while Jack wandered about the beach, sniffing into holes and examining the skeletons of the horse-shoes and crabs that had been thrown up by the winter storms. They found many delicate skeletons of baby horse-shoes, some not much larger than a silver quarter of a dollar, and perfect in shape.
“We must make a collection of curiosities,” Billy said,—“shells and horse-shoes and all such things.”
“I can show you where there are beautiful stones,” said Sam. “I have got a little bookcase where we can keep them, and we can label them just as they do in the Museum.”
As Sam spoke, the clear notes of a horn were heard from the direction of the house. “That’s for me,” said Sam. “They always blow that horn when they want me, and I guess it’s about time for lunch.”
So the two boys went toward the house, carrying as many of their “curiosities” as they could take, and Jack followed.
The fresh sea air had sharpened the appetites of the boys, and of Jack, too, but they spent as little time at the table as possible, they were in such a hurry to go back to their play on the beach.
In these pleasures the days passed so rapidly that Sam’s birthday came around before he had thought it was anywhere near the time for it. Jack appeared every day with great regularity, and never let them out of his sight. Even while they were eating their meals, he lay under the dining-room windows, in order that he might be on hand if they required his services.
“What should you like to do to celebrate your birthday, Sam?” asked his grandpapa one morning at the breakfast table.
“I know what I should like to do,” replied Sam, who usually knew just what he wanted, “but I don’t suppose there is any chance of my doing it.”
“What is it, Sam?”
“Well, you know those children who were so good to Billy? The ones you gave the cakes to, you know. Billy and I have been thinking how much they would like to be here and run on the beach and see the colt and the puppies. Billy said if he had lots of money he would just send for them to come here and have a good time. It is awfully hot in that part of the city where they live, Billy says, and it smells awfully bad, too.”
“I know it does, Sam,” replied Grandpapa, very seriously, “and I wish we could take all the children out of the hot city and let them run about in the fields and on the beach as you and Billy do.”
“I knew it couldn’t be done,” said Sam with a sigh.
“We can’t take care of all the children in the city, Sam,” replied Grandpapa, “but I think we can manage to give these three a taste of the country.”
“Oh, Grandpapa!” exclaimed Sam, and he was so overcome with joy at the prospect that he couldn’t find words to say how happy he was. His grandmother was very particular about his table manners, so he said, “Please excuse me a minute, Grandmamma,” and, jumping down from his chair, ran up to his grandfather and put his arms about him and hugged him until his face was quite red from the effort. “I think you are the very kindest man I ever saw, Grandpapa,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH
MR. LEDWELL was fully as kind as his little grandson thought him. That very day he went to several of the townspeople to ascertain if any of them were willing to take three city children as boarders for a few weeks. At last he found what he wanted. A young married woman with no children of her own was glad to oblige the man who was such a favorite with everybody, and at the same time earn a little money; for money is scarce in the country, where the means for earning it are so much less than in the city.
On a beautiful morning about a week later, the three children, beaming with happiness, alighted at Seaport station, to find Sam and Billy on the platform looking eagerly for them. Yet when they met, the natural shyness that children feel at meeting those whom they seldom see, overcame the three new-comers, and they found no words to express the pleasure and gratitude that was in their hearts, although their happy faces spoke for them. Sam, always business-like, was the first to speak and conduct them to the wagonette which was to take them to their boarding-place. When they were seated in the wagonette, facing one another, Maysie at last found voice,—
“Hallo, Billy!” she said, her face wreathed in smiles.
They were all a little shy of Sam at first, but they soon felt at their ease, for he pointed out the objects of interest as they drove along, and told them about the colt, the puppies, the kittens, and the wonderful things they would find on the beach.
“Is it hot in the city?” asked Sam.
“Just!” replied Johnny, briefly.
“I saw a horse that was killed entirely by the hot sun,” said Maysie.
“He wasn’t dead, Maysie,” said Johnny; “it is just overcome he was. They took him off in a big cart to the hospital.”
Soon the engine-house was passed, and there sat Jack, who knew them as soon as they came in sight. Sam insisted on taking him in, and Jack, who seldom had the pleasure of a drive, was very glad of the opportunity.
“He looks like the dog I saw to the fire that day I told you of,” said Maysie.
“It can’t be the same one,” replied Hannah, “for that one runs with one of the city engines, and he wouldn’t be so far from home.”
“But it is the same,” said Billy; and always glad to tell how faithful Jack saved his life on the night of the fire, he told the story to them, and how Jack happened to be so far away from his old home.
When they stopped at the pretty farm-house where the city children were to stay, a pleasant-faced woman came out to meet them and show them the rooms they were to occupy, and Sam and Billy left them there, promising to come for them in the afternoon, to show them all the things they had told them about.
The sweet air, the green fields, and the singing birds were what these city children had never before enjoyed, and nothing was lost on them. There was only one drawback to their perfect happiness, and that was the fact that Mother was not there to enjoy it with them.
“If Mother could only be here, too,” said Hannah, “how beautiful it would be!”
“But she said she should enjoy it just as much as we did, when we got home and told her about it,” said Maysie.
“I know she said so,” replied Hannah, “but it ain’t like smelling the beautiful air and seeing the fields and things.”
“But she won’t have so much work to do while we are away, and there won’t be no noise nor nothing,” said Maysie, who always took a hopeful view of things.
“The house will seem awful lonesome to her,” said Johnny, whom Hannah’s remark had made a little homesick.
“She told us to have as good a time as we could,” said Maysie, “and I’ve made up my mind to see everything and tell her all about it. Do you mind how pleased Mother is when we tell her things we’ve seen?”
“I know,” said Hannah with a sigh, “but I wish Mother could be here all the same.”
“But she can’t, you know,” said hopeful Maysie, “so what’s the use of fretting about what can’t be helped?”
“Maysie is right,” said Hannah, after a moment’s silence, for she began to see into what an unhappy mood they were drifting. “The best thing we can do is to get as strong and well as we can, and then we can help Mother more when we get home.”
“That’s so,” replied Johnny, once more cheerful; “and it’s the pocketful of shells and nice stones I’ll take home to her,—those the boy told us of.”
“And the day we go home we’ll take her a big bunch of the flowers the fields is full of,” said Hannah.
“And the kitten the boy promised me!” said Maysie.
“I don’t believe Father would let us keep a kitten,” said Johnny. “You know about the little dog!”
“Kittens isn’t dogs,” replied Maysie, confidently. “I know he wouldn’t send a kitten out on us.”
“I guess he wouldn’t mind a kitten,” said Hannah, “because they keep the mice away. I heard him tell Mother one day that she ought to get a cat or the mice would eat us out of house and home.”
So they agreed that it would be safe to introduce a kitten into their home, and in talking over the pleasant surprises they intended to give Mother they were soon their old cheerful selves.
Only those who have always lived in a city can understand fully the state of bliss these children lived in during their stay in the country. Hunting for eggs in the hen-house and barn, discovering stolen nests, going to the pasture for the cows, and watching the process of milking, riding to the hayfield in the empty hay-rigging, and, after treading down the load, making a deep nest in the hay and riding back to the barn,—particularly enjoying the jolt as the heavy wagon went over the high threshold,—then the pleasure of sliding down from the top of the high load into the farmer’s arms!—that was the best of all.
In these simple country pleasures, in the company of Sam and Billy, and the enjoyment of Mr. Ledwell’s beautiful place, the days flew rapidly by, leaving as they went traces of the fresh air and sunlight on their blooming cheeks and sun-browned skins. Almost before they knew it, the time for which they had been invited had passed, and their faces grew long when they thought of leaving these blissful scenes. The calves, the hens, and the pigs—especially the new litter of pigs, with their pink skins and funny little wrinkled noses—how could they make up their minds to leave them?
Then, just when everything looked most hopeless, came a pleasant surprise. The farmer’s wife, with whom they had been boarded, said she had become so attached to them, and had found them so helpful and such good company, that she wanted them to stay two whole weeks more; yes, she did! And she said they were the best-mannered children she had ever had in her house, besides!
These compliments pleased Sam and Billy as much as they did the three children to whom they referred, and little Maysie resolved to repeat them to Mother the next time she was reproved for her manners.
As for Jack the Fire-dog, after the arrival of the three city children he spent more time than ever on Mr. Ledwell’s premises. Since he could not be with his old engine and his beloved company, he could feel interest in no other engine; but there were the dear children, and Jack had always been accustomed to the company of children and could not live without them. So by degrees Jack established himself on the Ledwell estate, and from sleeping there on extremely hot nights came to sleep there every night. It was very pleasant sleeping under the large elms, with the sea-breezes wafted to him, or on cool nights, in the roomy stable, where he could smell the sweet hay overhead and hear the bull pups nestling in their sleep in their box from the room beyond; for the mother of the pups had become reconciled to Jack since he had no intention of hurting her babies, and even allowed him to play with them, now they had grown large and strong.
It was a very fortunate thing for the pups and their mother and the horses and every one on the place, too, that Jack had seen fit to take up his abode on the premises—but we will tell what happened.
One night when the man whose duty it was to close the stable was about to lock up, he caught sight of Jack lying under the large elm-tree in front of the stable.
“‘Twill be cold, old boy, before morning,” he said to Jack as he held the door open, “and I advise you to come inside.”
Jack had been thinking the same thing himself, so he got up and went in to his bed in the harness-room. The heavy door was rolled to and locked, and the man went upstairs to his room on the floor above.
A night-watchman is usually employed where valuable horses are kept, and usually there was one on Mr. Ledwell’s place, but for the past two nights he had been at his home ill from a cold, and the premises were left unguarded.
Jack curled up in his comfortable bed, listening for a while to the heavy steps of the men overhead, the occasional stamping from the horses’ stalls, or the rattling of their halter chains against their iron mangers; to the occasional nestling of the pups as they stirred in their sleep and crowded one another in their attempts to obtain more room; to the rising wind that shook the drooping boughs of the big elm outside. It was very pleasant to listen to these sounds from his comfortable bed in the harness-room, and, while listening to them, Jack fell asleep. He had acquired the habit of sleeping with one ear open during his old life in the engine-house, and the habit was so firmly rooted that it would never leave him. This night he awoke every few minutes, starting at every sound. Once he jumped to his feet, dreaming that he was in the old engine-house, and that the gong had just struck.
It was no gong, however, but only the sharp noise made by one of the horses as he gave his halter chain a sudden jerk, and Jack was wide awake now and listening with all his might.
What makes the Fire-Dog so restless, and why does he keep his keen nose up in the air, sniffing so eagerly, then suddenly start to his feet and run about the floor of the large stable, peering in at every corner and cranny, and then with a whine dart up the staircase leading to the floor above? The wire door used in summer time swings inward, and as Jack bounds against it, it flies open and he stands inside. It is a good-sized room with two beds in it, the occupants fast asleep.
There is no doubt now as to what brought Jack here. A decided smell of smoke pervades the room, increasing every moment, oozing through the crevices of the partition which separates this room from the lofts beyond, where the hay is stored. The turned-down lamp that is always kept lighted at night, in case of a sudden call, shows dimly through the gathering haze, and the Fire-Dog knows that there is not a moment to lose. With one leap he stands by the side of the man who let him into the stable a few hours before. He is fast asleep, and Jack’s loud barks only cause him to stir and turn over in his sleep. But the Fire-Dog has not been brought up in an engine-house for nothing, and he knows the horrors of a fire at night. He now pounces upon the heavy sleeper, pawing him frantically with his strong paws, while his loud barking is shrill with the warning he tries so hard to express.
He succeeds at last in rousing the heavy sleeper and at the same time the occupants of the other bed. They take in the situation at once, and in an instant are on their feet. They snatch up some articles of clothing and run for the stairs, putting them on as they go. The rolling door is thrown open, and their voices send out the startling cry of “Fire! Fire!”
The loud cry is borne on the night air to the stable beyond, where the farm-horses and cows are kept, and where other men are sleeping, and there the alarm is taken up and sent on to the house, where the family are fast asleep.
There is nothing that arouses one more suddenly and fills one with more alarm than the cry of “Fire!” in the middle of the night. In a few minutes all the people living on the place are aroused. The alarm is sounded for the only engine in town, but what can one engine a mile distant accomplish when a stable filled with hay is on fire?
The first thought is for the horses; and they, terrified at the noise and excitement and fast-gaining fire, refuse to leave their stalls, running back when they are released so soon as they catch sight of the flames. So blankets and carriage robes are hastily caught up and thrown over their heads, that they may not see the flames, and in that way they are led through the burning stable in safety and turned loose in the field, where they stand watching the commotion about them and snorting with terror.
Then the carriages are run out and harnesses caught down from the pegs where they hang, and carried to a place of safety. Meanwhile the fire steadily sweeps on its way, bursting through the roof and sending volumes of smoke and flame high up into the dark sky. The big elm that drooped its graceful branches over the burning building, shivers and moans like a live creature in pain, as the tongues of flame lick its fresh green leaves and shrivel them with their hot breath.
Every man and woman on the place is awake and on the spot, and the high wind is taking the smoke and flames of the burning building directly in the line of the stable where the farm-horses and cows are kept. These are taken out blindfolded, as the horses in the other stable have been, for the heat from the burning hay, the summer’s heavy crop, is intense, and the strong wind hurls blazing embers against the shingled roof.
It is evident that this stable will go like the other before long, and men are on the roof, stamping out the fire as often as it catches on the dry shingles. Then they do what is often done in country towns where the fire department is of little use. Two lines of men and women stand between the farm-stable and the well, while pails are hurriedly filled with water and passed from hand to hand along one line until they finally are handed up to the men on the roof, to be dashed over the heated shingles. Then the empty pails are passed down the other line to the well. In this way, the roof is kept wet and the burning embers are made harmless. Before the pails have been passed along the lines many times, the engine comes tearing up the driveway, the horses at full speed, and draws up before the burning stable. It is too late to be of any service there, but the other buildings can be saved, and the hose is quickly unwound and attached to the well. The deep thuds of the working engine are soon heard, and the hose is turned upon the farm-stable. Every throb of the engine sends the water higher and higher, until a broad, full stream strikes the ridgepole and sends rivulets running over the surface of the slanting roof. In less than five minutes more service is done than the lines of hard-working men and women could accomplish in an hour.
All this time the Fire-Dog, but for whose warning many lives would have been lost, is going in and out among the workers, with the same air of responsibility that he had always worn in the old days when he went to fires with Company 33. He threads his way among the crowd, which has collected, exactly as he used to, looking about to assure himself that everything is as it should be. When Sam and Billy appear on the scene, excited and awestruck, he stations himself by their side and never leaves them for an instant, as if he fears harm might come to them if he were not there to watch over them.
The anxiety comes to an end at last. The stable where the fire started is a pile of black and smoking embers, but the farm-stable with its sheds and paddocks is saved, and not a life lost, even to the kittens and puppies; and of old Jack, whose sagacity has brought this about, what a hero they make when the story is made known! The children cannot love him any more, because they already love him as much as they can, but every man and woman on the place has a kind word and a caress for the faithful Fire-Dog. If he were not the most modest dog that ever lived, his head would certainly be turned, for the facts even reach the newspapers, and the whole story is told that everybody may read it. It does not make him one bit conceited, the dear old Fire-Dog, and he would do the same thing right over again, even if every hair on his body should be singed. When, however, a handsome collar with a broad brass plate, on which is engraved in large letters
JACK THE FIRE-DOG
PRESENTED BYbr />
HIS GRATEFUL FRIENDS,
is placed on his neck, then you may be sure his heart swells with pride and gratitude.
If only there were time enough, how we should like to tell a little more about Jack’s friends,—how Sam grew up to be a man very like his grandfather and made a great many people happy; how Billy grew strong and manly and at last became an artist and was able to make a comfortable home for his mother; how the three city children went home well and happy and came back for many summers, until Johnny was old enough to take a position in Mr. Ledwell’s business, where he made himself so useful that he rose a little higher in position each year; how helpful Hannah became to Mother, and what good care she took of the pretty house to which they moved in the beautiful town of Seaport; how Maysie turned out to be a very capable business woman; how Father enjoyed the new home in the country, and did not so often come home tired as he used to in the city.
We can only hint briefly at these things, however, for it is time to say good-bye to the dear old Fire-Dog and his friends.