The key to Betsy's heart

IT was late September, with a blue haze on the hills, and a low sun, that made the red trees redder and the yellow trees yellower, just the kind of a day for a little dog to run abroad, wild and free and glad; a day that should have brought smiles to every one.

But no one smiled at the Johns’ breakfast table that morning. There was no trunk to pack, for Van wore all the clothes he had—just his pretty brown and white coat and his brass-studded collar. Betsy did, however, roll up his blanket, as if he were a soldier on the march, and it was to be taken along, in case he should be gone during cold weather.

Van capered and looked his gayest, when he was told that he was to go, for he dearly loved traveling, and to go with Dr. Johns would be the greatest fun ever. The good doctor himself had dropped his important work at the Hospital to see the sinful Prince safely established at college.

In spite of his chain, Van trotted and pranced, and almost dragged Dr. Johns off his feet in his eagerness, as they went down the hill to the trolley-station.

When the conductor had taken the fares, he came and sat down by Dr. Johns. Van bobbed up gleefully, as if he and the conductor were on the best of terms.

“Good morning, Dr. Johns. Hello, Van! Taking him on a vacation?”

“Hardly a vacation, I am afraid. In fact, it is quite the contrary. He’s been killing chickens, and I’m taking him to Trimble, the trainer, over in Westchester, to see if he can be cured of the habit.”

“That so? Well, now, I’m mighty sorry. He’s a great dog. I’d be glad to own one of his kind, chickens or no chickens. You see me and the little fellow are old friends.”

“Indeed? I wish the farmers around here could talk of him as kindly.”

“They would if they got acquainted with him, personal. You see, I’ve been running on this Hospital car ever since he was a puppy. One day, about a year ago, when he was a little tad, no bigger’n a pint of cider,—you could put him in your pocket,—Miss Betsy took him in town on my car, and he had the time of his life. He sat on the front seat like a man, and there wasn’t a house or tree on the line that he didn’t take in.

“Well, the very next day, at the same hour, I was startin’ to take my fares, and, if you’ll believe it, there sat that little scamp, perky and peart as you please, alone on the front seat, just where he had sat with Miss Betsy, and lookin’ as if he owned the car. How he got up there I don’t know; he was too small to climb. He must have taken it flying. But there he was as sassy as a squirrel.”

Dr. Johns laughed. “Did he pay his fare?”

“Not he. I didn’t ask no fares of him. I let him ride for nothing to the end of the line and back. Since then he’s had a free ride every time he asked for it—more times than I can count. All the car men know him.”

“He seems to make friends easily,” said Dr. Johns.

“Ha, ha! Not as easy as you’d imagine, Doctor. He gets his ride, and he wags the thing he calls his tail at us; but none of us ever got him to follow us. He always beats it up the hill back home at the end of the trip. Now I’m mighty sorry he’s gone wrong. He must have been in bad company. Here you are at the station, Doctor. Good luck to you. So long, Van!”

Railway cars, too, were an old story to our hero. This time he sat openly on the red plush seat, for this conductor also knew Dr. Johns. The journey was not long. In an hour or two the brakeman shouted “Westchester!” and the train stopped.

Dr. Johns and Van climbed down on the wooden platform of a station at a small country village, and looked around.

A boy about ten years old, with honest blue eyes and many freckles, came up and said bashfully,

“This yer’s the dawg?”

“If you are Mr. Trimble’s boy, it is,” said Dr. Johns.

“Yessir, I’m Mr. Trimble’s Pete. Pa’s gone away to-day, and he told me to come fer the dawg.”

“All right, then. Now, this is Van, and you must take the best of care of him, for he’s a great pet at home. He has some bad habits that your father said he could break him of. I think I’ll go to the house, and see where he is to be; there is plenty of time before the return train.”

Pete led the way, and Dr. Johns followed, still holding to Van’s chain. Van gamboled happily along; there was no hint as yet of what was to follow. There was a walk of about ten minutes from the station, past two or three stores, four or five houses, then sunlit meadows. They paused at last before a closely latched gate in a high fence of palings. Pete unfastened the gate, closing it carefully after them, as they went in and up the path to a low frame house, yellow, with green blinds.

A woman, with a motherly face and eyes like Pete’s, came to the door.

“Mrs. Trimble, I suppose? I am Dr. Johns, from the Hospital.”

“Oh, yes, Dr. Johns. We was expectin’ you. This here is the dawg you wrote about?”

“Yes, Mrs. Trimble. This is Vanart VI. May I see the place where he is to be housed during his stay?”

“Sure you can,” said Mrs. Trimble, leading the way. “He will be kept in that kennel right over there, and there’s clean straw in it.”

Dr. Johns looked around on a yard of ample proportions, where stood a dozen or so good-sized kennels, some distance apart. Several of these were occupied by dogs larger than Van. These were chained to their kennels separately, so they could not reach each other. At sight of Van they set up a chorus of barking and baying which was quite deafening. Van strained with all his little might to get at them, for the size of a dog never bothered him. He was no coward. But he was kept tightly on the chain, and all acquaintance had to be carried on from a distance.

“Them there is young huntin’ dawgs,” said Mrs. Trimble. “They’re bein’ trained to hunt birds. Some is p’inters and some is retrievers and some is setters. That there is a English setter, and these two fellers is Irish setters. They’re about the purtiest of the lot, but they’re all fine dawgs. We don’t get no mongrels here. I feed ’em, an’ I get to likin’ ’em purty well,” she continued in her soft voice.

“That there is a blood-hound. He’s bein’ trained to hunt folks. I don’t take much to that idea, but they’re useful sometimes, to catch criminals.”

Van did not understand what Mrs. Trimble said, but he liked her. She looked a little like Mary.

“Take good care of the little fellow, and see that he is taught not to kill cats and chickens. I believe he will learn easily if he is properly taught. He’s had no one to train him at home.” Dr. Johns looked at the kennel that was to become the home of royalty. “You will see that he is comfortable in the cold weather?”

All this time Pete had been hovering near. Already the brave, proud head and beautiful, shapely body had won the boy. Now he spoke:

“He’ll be here in the kennel daytimes. Nights I guess Pa’ll let him sleep in the house with me.” Then he added in a burst of confidence, “He’s sech a purty little feller; I guess he’s some dawg, too.”

Dr. Johns smiled. Always Van appeared to get the best of what was offered.

“I shall be glad if you look after him nights, my boy. He’s a house-pet, and a kennel will be hard on him at the very best.”

Dr. Johns stooped down and took Vanny-Boy’s head in his two hands. The little fellow shivered with a fear of something about to happen, and looked up, with eyes big and questioning.

“Good-by, little Van. Be brave, and learn your lessons.”

Dr. Johns turned away, and hurried off down the road to the station, so that no one should see his mouth quiver.

And the other end of Van’s chain was in the hands of little Pete, and Van was left behind!

He stood still, dazed and astonished, until he saw Dr. Johns disappear around a corner; then the truth flashed upon him. He had been deserted!

With a leap he started to follow, but the chain held him. He bounded from side to side, he jerked, he tugged. He barked, he howled, he yelped, he whined, he begged. It was all useless. The chain held, although it took all Pete’s strength. All the other dogs set up a howl of sympathy. They had been through the same sorrow, and not one of them but had grieved over just such a cruel desertion. This was the College of the Deserted—the Masterless Dogs.

Pete tried to comfort him, but he would have none of it. His grief was too new and poignant. He struggled away, and tried to break the hated leash. Howl after howl went up. The little dog who held up such a brave head in the face of dangers was prostrated by sorrow. But this was more than sorrow; it was anguish at a betrayal.

“Better chain him to the kennel, Honey,” said Mrs. Trimble. “He might get away. Here, I’ll help you. My! but he’s a strong little feller!”

Van was dragged across the yard and fastened securely to the kennel, and for an hour he tugged vainly at his chain, and rent the air with heart-breaking howls.

Then he lay down and tried to gnaw the chain apart, but the steel links hurt his teeth, and made his mouth bleed. Then he fell to howling once more.

“Dr. Johns! Dr. Johns!” he seemed to say. “Take me home to my Betsy! Take me ho-o-o-ome! Cruel! O cru-u-e-l!”

There was no answer, save the barking from the other kennels, for Pete had gone about his daily duties, and could not attend to him. It was Saturday, his father was away, and Pete was a manful little boy about helping.

All that miserable September day Van cried bitterly. It had started so happily, and now had come this terrible desertion and loneliness and homesickness. He could not understand, and no one could tell him why his Betsy did not come and rescue him. She had never failed him before.

Nightfall came on, and with it came Pete, with a bit of supper. It was left untouched. Pete sat on the ground and reasoned with Van.

“Now, you little feller, you jest show yer grit. I know by your look you got some. You mustn’t be a baby. You got to show some spunk. Pop don’t let no dawg take on like that. Ef he was here he’d lick you and make you stop. Now you be a good dog, and I’ll take you in the house.”

To the kitchen they went, and there the chain was slipped, and Van could run free. Straight to the door he went, and lay down, with his nose to the crack, where he could smell the outside air, and there he whined pitifully, until Mrs. Trimble felt a tear on her own cheek.

“He does take on awful. Try and comfort him, Honey. Bring him here by the fire, where it’s warmer. These pet dogs do make a heap of trouble when they first come.”

“I hope he gets to like me,” said Pete. “He’s so purty. Come on, Van, and let’s play we’re old friends.”

By inches Pete succeeded in coaxing Van in front of the stove, where he sat, grave and silent, watching the streak of red coals through the draft, with only now and then a sobbing whimper. Violent grief cannot last forever. By and by he lay down alongside, with his nose on Pete’s knee, and the sad brown eyes closed.

When bedtime came, he followed Pete up to the garret room, with its sloping sides, and he spent the night snuggled close to the little boy. Through the dark hours he forgot his sorrow and loneliness, forgot that he was a poor, deserted waif, and in prison; forgot even his dear mistress, his own Betsy.