The key to Betsy's heart

THUS began a new life for both Betsy and Van. Gay, smiling days they were, and, for the most part, full to the brim.

It was country all around the Hospital, which was itself a big and famous one. Dr. Johns was the head doctor, and when he said “Come,” people came there to work, and when he said “Go,” they went away. It had been a great venture for Bob to bring a little dog to a place where everybody was serious and quiet and orderly. Dr. Johns, in his way, was a sort of king on the Hospital Hill, and had much dignity to keep up. What would happen if a riotous little prince of a dog should try to usurp Dr. Johns’ authority, or upset his dignity? It would not do at all.

But there Van was, and Betsy had adopted him for her own. So, when Dr. Johns came home and met the new-comer, he was polite, as he always was, but perhaps a certain warmth was lacking. He remarked that Van was a very pretty dog, but Betsy felt the chill of it, and she ran away with her pet tucked under her arm.

“I think Betsy feels hurt a bit,” said Aunt Kate.

“Hurt? How? I said nothing to hurt her.”

“I think you did not intend to, Ben, but your manner toward the dog was none too cordial. I think he is going to help us solve our problem of Betsy.”

“Well, my dear, I cannot think that it is a good plan for us to keep a dog at an institution. It is a bad example.”

“But Betsy loves him, and she’ll be so disappointed if he is sent away. I think he’ll be a good little fellow, and he’s a thoroughbred, you know, with a pedigree as long as your arm.”

“A thoroughbred, is he? And Betsy loves him? Well, well, if Betsy wants him, and if you want him, of course that settles it.”

“I think I saw a tear in her eye as she went out,” said Mrs. Johns, pushing her point in the path of least resistance.

“Hm! You did, did you? Well, you tell Betsy for me that she may keep dogs all over the place if she wants to. By the way, tell her to bring him back again. I didn’t get a good look at him.”

And the beauty of the wee rascal did the rest.

Dr. Johns practically gave him the keys of the castle. He graduated by leaps and bounds from first lessons in the kitchen, where a basket was installed for him, and where he slept at night. As soon as he was big enough to climb up and down the steps of the honeysuckle porch, the world outside was his also.

He was too small to take it all in as yet, for a scamper across the grounds would have been a good half-mile. There were four great buildings of brick and stone, and all around them grew noble trees and beautiful flowers on green, velvety lawns. There were ponds, too, swarming with gleaming goldfish and pollywogs of all sizes, where the big and little frogs croaked in the warm spring evenings. Then there were long processions of people,—patients from the Hospital, who went out to walk every day when the sun shone. Van liked these, and would stand and bark with joy every time they went past. Also he barked at the red squirrels that chattered back at him from the trees, at the fat robins, who pulled countless fat worms out of the ground to feed to their greedy babies, and at the stately blackbirds who stalked around on the same errand. Together Betsy and Van roamed the place over, unmolested.

It was joy to Van, just being alive. The sunshine seemed to sparkle around his little white body, as he rolled on the grass, or pawed at the loose loam in the flower-beds; and it was a warm caress, when, tired after a chase for butterflies, he dropped, panting, at the foot of the steps where Betsy sat.

Besides Dr. and Mrs. Johns and Betsy, and Treesa the maid, there was in the house a cook, Mary, who made nice things for people to eat, and who was one of those dear Irish souls of whom the world cannot have too many. She knew where to place a cooky jar so that a little girl could find her way to it unhindered, and she knew also how to smuggle tid-bits to a little dog who was supposed to live entirely on dog-biscuit and milk. Then there was Thatcher, a convalescent patient, who came over every day from the Hospital to help with the work. Thatcher welcomed the Prince as one who is grounded in the knowledge of dogs.

“My father used to train dogs, Mrs. Johns, and you’ll want him trained right, or he’ll be good for nothing. I’d like to do what I can.”

“I shall be so thankful if you will. Now is the time for his character to be made or unmade.”

“I’ll be glad to train him, ma’am.” Thatcher straightened up and looked very grand and important, and Aunt Kate felt a load roll from her shoulders; for it was no mean responsibility to bring up a puppy so that he should be an honor to his fathers and an ornament to society.

So Thatcher began his own particular system of training. His first idea was that a dog should be taught the art of swimming.

Now, every dog knows how to swim without being taught, but Thatcher thought it would be pretty sport to see his Lordship go after sticks and the like, and swim back with them in his mouth. So one morning he tucked Van under his arm, and carried him off to the pond, Betsy following close at his heels.

This was something new. Van rather liked a bath, when Mrs. Johns or Treesa soused him all over in a tub of warm soap-suds, and rinsed him and dried him with a towel. But a tub like this—all wide and shiny, with blue sky at the bottom, and green trees and red buildings standing on their heads all around the edge,—this was not to be taken lightly—it was too large an affair.

Van sniffed at the brim of it, put his paw in, and drew it out again, wet and cold. He looked up at Thatcher for an explanation, when all of a sudden, without any preparation whatever, he was picked up and thrown, as if he were a stone, straight into the middle of the pond.

Down he went, gasping,—away under—down—down—swirling over and over. Then up he came, kicking and spluttering. He shook the water out of his frightened eyes, and struck out for shore and Thatcher, whom he had not as yet connected with the outrage. You would have thought he had been swimming for years.

“Hurrah! Good boy!” cried Thatcher. “Now go after that stick.” He cast a bit of wood in. “See that? Now go for it!”

Van looked at the stick, and then at Thatcher. He may have thought of the poor stick that doubtless would be compelled to swim back as he had to, but he made no effort to rescue it.

“Go after it, I say!” And Van found himself hurtling through the air once more. When he came up from the cold depths, the piece of wood was at his side, but still he did not see how it had anything to do with him, and he swam back once more to Thatcher.

Again he was thrown in, and farther than before. This time as he made his way to shore, he put two and two together, and made four out of it.

One, it was Thatcher who had done the deed, and he was not to be trusted; two, he did not need swimming lessons; three, the water was cold and he was tired; and four, he did not intend to give Thatcher another chance to play so contemptible a trick upon him. He turned suddenly and made for the far side of the pond.

Swift as a bird, Betsy was there to meet him. He shook himself, and she gathered him, all dripping, to her bosom, and ran for the house.

That was all he wanted of the pond. One more lesson he had, when Betsy was not by to rescue him. He was thrown in again and again, until he was a thoroughly disgusted little dog, with a hatred for the very sight of water. From that time on he never willingly wet his feet. He hated even his bath and would run and hide if any one mentioned the word to him. But he learned that baths must be taken, no matter how disagreeable. A Prince must be clean, if he would live in a palace; and Betsy, in her new zeal for soap and water, took him in charge herself, and continued to scrub him faithfully.

The rest of Thatcher’s efforts at training resulted in a series of failures. Thatcher was willing, but Van was not. He did not intend to be trained by his valet, and one, too, who had betrayed him at the outset. Where confidence is lacking one cannot get great results in dealing with a wilful son of royalty.

The next instructor was more successful.

Dr. Peters, one of the young physicians at the Hospital, came over one morning on an errand. He was made acquainted with Van and duly admired him.

“Have you taught him any tricks, Miss Betsy?”

“No, I don’t know how to teach him.”

“Let me try him. He looks as bright as a button. You can teach anything to a dog like that, if you go at it in the right way. Come here, Van.”

Van came, expecting a game of romps, or, at the very least, a pat on the head.

“Dead Dog!” said Dr. Peters; and Van found himself unaccountably flat on his back, waving his helpless paws in the air.

“Dead Dog!” Dr. Peters repeated,—“Dead! Dead! Now shut your eyes,—tight!” Two fingers closed their lids.

Van struggled. This was an insult to his royal person. But he was held there. Then, of a sudden, at the word “Police!” he was released.

“Get him a piece of cake, Miss Betsy. Now try it again, Van. Dead Dog!”

Van looked just an instant at Dr. Peters, as if he were trying to understand clearly; and then, thump! down he went, lying as still as the doorstep itself, until he heard the word of relief. Then he was up, jumping and capering as if he himself had thought out the whole thing.

The next time Dr. Peters came over, Van saw him from afar, and promptly plumped down, not waiting for the command; and there he lay, prone on the sidewalk, until the word “Police!” released him.

But he never liked doing this particular trick, and would do it for no one else without much coaxing. It was not seemly for him to take so humble a position, and all his life, whenever he was told to do “Dead Dog,” he would first go through all the other tricks he had ever been taught, hoping that people would forget about this disagreeable one, and pass it by.

All puppies, whether they are thoroughbreds or mongrels, begin life by practising their sharp little teeth on something, and generally they care little whether it be a lace curtain or a fine Bokhara rug. From the first Van was taught that he must be full owner of the thing he might wish to destroy.

Betsy gave him one of her discarded copper-toed shoes to try his tiny new teeth upon.

“Now, Vanny-Boy, this shoe is yours; no, no,—this one that I give you. You mustn’t touch this other one.”

Van fell to upon his gift. Bit by bit he demolished the leather—the scraps lay all over the floor. Down to the bare bones of it he worried his way, and then he began on the sole. In a day or so he had this also in shreds. Only the heel and the bit of copper remained to tell of his busy moments. All this time the other shoe lay near by, but he never looked at it. When the task he had set himself was finished, he came wriggling to Betsy, who offered him the mate. Then and then only did he seize the other shoe, and it soon followed in the way of its fellow.

Under the little writing-desk in Betsy’s room was an old and dilapidated carpet-covered footstool, which showed unmistakable signs of a long and useful life. Van, who loved playing at Betsy’s feet, discovered the rag-tag-and-bobtail effect of it, and received permission to worry the poor old thing. Little by little the carpet grew thinner, but it held out for many days.

One morning Betsy went in town with Aunt Kate, leaving Van safe in the kitchen with Mary.

That is, she thought he was safe. Van lay in his basket under the table, until Mary went down in the cellar. Then he arose, and went toward the swinging door that led into the dining-room. He had learned a secret about that door at the time of the yellow-cat episode. He pushed it—very gently. It yielded; a little more—it opened, swung back again, and struck him right on the tip of his little black nose.

He winked hard, and sat back a moment to get his bearings; then he went at it again. With his whole weight thrown against it, it swung widely, and with a dash he was through, and on the other side before it could close again. He was free, with the whole house before him, and no one to say him nay.

But it was not a voyage of discovery on which he was bent. He had business on hand. A young and energetic dog should not be idle, and there was work to do.

Up the stairs he clambered,—that was the hardest of all, for every step must be gained with a stretch, a reach, a hump, and a scramble. At last his little brown head peeped over the top landing, and the way was clear to Betsy’s room.

No hesitation. His duty lay before him. He headed straight for the old footstool, sought out the weakest spot, just where he had left off yesterday. It was no sin; the stool was his very own, and where is the monarch who may not, if he likes, chew his own footstool?

Very quiet and busy he was, for a time. Bit by bit that barrier of heavy carpet warp must be worn away. He had no pick and shovel, like the miners and sappers under a fortress; his only weapons were his sharp little teeth, and the small nails on his forepaws; but he went bravely to work.

He chewed and he chewed; he never paused for a minute; he never gave the enemy an instant to recover lost ground. If he had been a soldier in war-time, he would have been cheered on as a hero, so manfully did he hold to his task.

At last he got a tooth in, and could tear at the strong linen walls. The breach grew wider—there was room for his paw. He inserted it, and drew out a fascinating bit of plunder; curly, woody stuff it was.

A volley of dust from the defense struck him full in the nose and made him sneeze and choke. This opposition only made his spirits soar the higher. Tooth and nail he struck back. He tore down the whole barrier, and rushed in on the defenseless excelsior.

The fierce frenzy of destruction—that savage instinct that has made other princes and kings tear down whole cities—took possession of him. Clouds of dust rolled up from the interior, and filled his nostrils like the smoke of battle. He dove into the very center of the core of the inside of the middle of the last dungeon of the fortress. Up heaved the excelsior before his frantic onslaught, flying in every direction. It lay in heaps, around him, over him, under him, in front of him, behind him. It fell on the remotest breastwork of furniture.

The rout was complete! No explosion could have rent that footstool more disastrously. Van shook off the ruins that had landed on his back; lay down on the empty shell of what was no longer and never more would be a footstool, and proceeded to divide the spoils, so to speak.

He worked through long and short division, and was worrying through a problem in fractions which concerned the last fragment that could still be called carpet, when Mrs. Johns and Betsy appeared in the doorway.

Through a haze they dimly saw a brown and white morsel of live joy, triumphing in the midst of a drifting mass of excelsior. Van lifted his head proudly and looked at them, as if he would say,

“Alone I did it! Excelsior!”