The story of a woolly dog

“Something I can do for you?” asked Mrs. Clark, “all in a flutter,” she said afterward to her neighbor, Mrs. Elkton, who kept a little grocery store. “The idea,” said Mrs. Clark, “of a rich gentleman like him walking into my poor little place!”

“That Woolly Dog in your window,” answered Mr. Blakeley. “I’ll take it. My nephew’s birthday,” he added, with a smile. Perhaps he thought if he didn’t say this that Mrs. Clark might think he wanted the Woolly Dog for himself. “Wrap it up, please.”

Mrs. Clark was still “all in a flutter.” Never before, in all the years that she had kept store, had anyone bought anything of her without asking the price. And often, when she told them the price, little as it was, the customer walked out without buying.

And Mr. Blakeley had said:

“I’ll take it!”

Just like that—poof!

Mrs. Clark reached over in the show window and picked up the Woolly Dog. She held him firmly in her hand, for her fingers trembled a bit and she did not want to drop the white, clean toy in the dust.

“Oh, I wonder what is going to happen to me?” thought the Woolly Dog, as he felt himself lifted up. “I think there is going to be a great change! Goodness knows I hope so! I hope I’m sold, for Mrs. Clark’s sake. Poor woman, she needs the money I’ll bring.

“Though I shall feel sad at leaving my friends, the poor toys, still, I was shut up in the agent’s sample valise so long that, really, I have had no adventures worth speaking about. Now I feel I am to see life.” So thought the Woolly Dog.

“This is—er—rather an expensive toy,” said Mrs. Clark slowly, as she smoothed the Dog’s wool. “Though it is considered one of the best. The price—er—the price—is—three dollars!”

She almost whispered those last two words, so fearful was she of shocking Mr. Blakeley.

“Eh—what’s that?” he asked, for he was a trifle deaf.

“The price is—three dollars! I’m afraid that’s rather expensive. I don’t carry much in that line—not in this neighborhood—but really I ought to get three dollars for the Dog and——”

“Why, you’re going to get three dollars for him,” chuckled Mr. Blakeley. “I never try to beat down a price. It looks worth it to me. I’ve seen some no better on Main Street that were marked five dollars. I think I’m getting a bargain. Donald will like it, I’m sure. Wrap it up, please, I’m in a hurry—my car broke down.”

With fingers that still trembled, Mrs. Clark wrapped the Woolly Dog in paper and tied it about with cord.

“Hum! This isn’t very pleasant,” thought the Woolly Dog to himself. “But I suppose it can’t last forever. When I get to Donald’s house—wherever that may be—I am sure my adventures will begin. But I wish I could have said good-bye to the poor toys.”

The poor toys themselves wished they might bid farewell to their expensive friend, the Woolly Dog, but it could not be. They dared not move or speak while human eyes were watching.

“There you are, madam, three dollars,” murmured Mr. Blakeley, as he passed over some crisp bills. “And I’m sure I’m quite pleased to get this toy for Donald. Good-morning!”

And out he walked.

“But, my stars! you should have seen the money in his pocketbook when he opened it to pay me the three dollars,” said Mrs. Clark afterward. “Honestly, I never knew men carried so much! But I’m thankful to get the three, as I needed just them to make up my rent. Now I won’t worry for another month, and by that time Jimmie may come home with the gold he is always talking about.” And a few weeks later Jimmie came home and his mother was no longer poor, for the sailor lad had found gold.

Humming to himself a little song, and quite pleased with his early morning shopping, even though the day had started with an accident to his automobile, Mr. Blakeley kept on through Hoyt Street with the paper parcel containing the Woolly Dog.

“Oh, Sammie! He’s bought it!” cried a girl’s voice.

“Who’s bought what?” asked her brother.

“The rich man has bought the big Woolly Dog from Mrs. Clark,” answered Lizzie. “I saw her take it out of the window and a man has it.”

“He has? Well, I’ll buy one like it some day when I get rich!” joked Sammie. “Hey, Timmie,” he went on, calling to another boy, “come on over. I know where there’s a dandy mud puddle!”

Mr. Blakeley, unaware of all the stir he had caused in that poor Hoyt Street by buying so costly a toy, kept on to his office. He was a very important man in business and he found clerks, secretaries and stenographers waiting for him to start the day’s affairs.

But, first of all, after he had taken off his hat, Mr. Blakeley handed to his private secretary the bundle he had brought from Mrs. Clark’s store.

“Take good care of that,” said the rich man to his secretary, Miss Moore. “There’s a dog in it!”

“A dog, Mr. Blakeley? Oh——”

“Yes,” he chuckled. “But don’t be afraid. He can’t bite! Wait, I’ll show him to you.”

He opened one end of the paper parcel and let the Woolly Dog be seen.

“Oh, isn’t he cute!” exclaimed Miss Moore, with a smile. Then she looked rather strangely at her employer.

“It isn’t for me,” went on Mr. Blakeley, with another chuckle. “It’s Donald’s birthday and I’m going to stop at his house this afternoon. Please don’t let me forget this Dog when James comes for me.”

“I’ll remind you, Mr. Blakeley.”

Then the day’s work began in Mr. Blakeley’s office. Clerks came and went, other business men dropped in to talk over money matters, and through it all the Woolly Dog lay wrapped in the paper on Mr. Blakeley’s desk. Once, when the wind started to blow away a bundle of checks, Miss Moore put the Woolly Dog on them as a weight to hold them down.

But the Woolly Dog knew nothing of this, though, even if he had known that he was guarding thousands of dollars I do not believe he would have been proud.

He was a very good and sensible Woolly Dog.

At last the business day came to an end. Mr. Blakeley finished signing papers and dictating letters. He reached for his hat when the porter came in to say that James and the automobile were outside.

“Don’t forget the Woolly Dog!” called Miss Moore, as she saw Mr. Blakeley about to leave his office without the bundle.

“Bless me! I should say not!” he cried. “Donald wouldn’t know what to think if I drove up on his birthday without a present! Come on, Doggie,” and he whistled a little, pretending that the Woolly Dog in the parcel was alive.

Miss Moore laughed to see her employer so jolly. As for the plaything, well, the Woolly Dog was alive, in a way, for he could hear the whistle, though of course he dared not bark in answer.

“Now I am traveling again,” thought the Dog to himself, as he felt Mr. Blakeley carrying him out to the car. James had mended the puncture and had called at the rich man’s office as he did every afternoon.

“Home, sir?” asked James, touching his cap as he closed the door after Mr. Blakeley had entered the car.

“No, to my sister’s house. You know where it is, James?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s Donald’s birthday,” explained Mr. Blakeley, and the chauffeur smiled as he caught a glimpse, through the torn paper, of the Woolly Dog.

Donald Cressey lived with his father and mother in a pleasant little house just outside the big city, and when Donald’s mother saw her brother’s large car coming to a stop in front of her home she called:

“Oh, Donald, here’s Uncle Teddy!”

“Has he brought my birthday present?” asked the little boy, as he eagerly raced to the door.

“You mustn’t expect Uncle Teddy to bring you a present each birthday,” replied his mother, for she did not want Donald to look for too much.

“Oh, but he always brings me something when I get a year older,” the boy murmured. “Don’t you think he will this time?”

Mrs. Cressey did not answer. She was watching her brother get out of his car. And then she and Donald, at the same time, saw the paper bundle.

“Oh, he has it! He has it!” cried Donald, jumping up and down for joy. A moment later he was in his uncle’s arms and was trying to loosen the paper and string from around the present.

And when he saw the pretty, white Woolly Dog the boy cried:

“Oh, that’s just what I wanted! Now I can have some fun!”

“You mustn’t get it dirty,” warned his mother. “It is a beautiful dog, Teddy,” she said to her brother. “But Donald must not soil it. Be careful—don’t drop it.”

“The Dog will wash. The lady I bought it of said so,” went on Donald’s uncle. “She washed it herself once, she said. I guess Donald won’t hurt it. Let him play with it and have a good time.”

And Donald certainly had a good time with the Woolly Dog. He hugged it close to him, and squeezed it hard, but the Woolly Dog did not mind that, for he was stuffed with soft cotton and could stand a great deal of squeezing.

“He seems to like it,” said Donald’s mother. “You were very kind to remember him, Teddy.”

“I thought of his birthday this morning when I happened to pass a toy store,” and Mr. Blakeley told about walking through Hoyt Street.

Donald thanked his uncle, and then showed him some of the other presents he had received. One was a little toy train of cars, and when Donald was telling his uncle that they would run on a tin track, suddenly the door of the room burst open and in rushed a little golden-haired creature with bright, flashing eyes. She caught sight of the new gift and cried:

“Oh, I wants Woolly Dog! I wants him! I hab him!”

And before Donald could save his new toy, his little sister, Jane, caught up the Woolly Dog in her arms and ran out of the room.

“Here! Come back! Come back with my Woolly Dog!” shouted Donald, but Jane ran down the hall.