attempted to assassinate me, and very nearly succeeded. I had composed
a madrigal for my sweetheart, and had just finished singing it to her
one evening when that calico-vending dude fired at me with a pistol
and narrowly missed cutting me off in the flower of my youth. The ball
lodged in my shoulder, and gave me no end of trouble. Did you ever hear
of such a cold-blooded attempt to--”
“Pardon me, Tommy,” said Fido, “but what was the song like?”
“Let me see;” said Tommy, “perhaps I can remember it. Oh yes, it ran
like this:
“‘_When the silvery moon doth brightly beam, after the toil of day is
done, how fair my darling dost thou seem, as thou climb’st the fence,
or on the ridge-pole swiftly run. Thy form is sylph-like in its grace;
thy voice seraphic sweet and low; how soft the whiskers on thy face,
that in the moonbeams brightly glow._
“‘_Miow, miow, miow, miow, ’iow, ’iow, ’iow!_’”
“Um-ah,--” said Fido. “Your song has one very admirable feature--it has
but one verse. I am not sure, however, but that I shall have to acquit
the young man who shot you. Self defense, you know, my dear Tommy is--”
“Oh, stow your sarcasm, Fido!” cried Tommy. “It isn’t at all becoming
to you, my boy. If you don’t want to hear the rest of my story, just
say so.”
“Oh, well, Tommy, you mustn’t be so sensitive to the raillery of an
old friend. Go on with your yarn. It is highly interesting.”
“Well, as I was saying, the ball lodged in my shoulder and nearly
killed me. I was sick a long time, and the doctor finally took me to a
veterinary for consultation. Of course I couldn’t say anything about
the bullet--on the lady’s account you know--so the doctor was stumped
for once. The veterinary pounded me black and blue from head to foot,
and after gouging my belly full of finger holes, said--‘He’s got
appendicitis, and we will have to operate.’ That settled _me_--I just
jumped through the window, sash and all, and weak as I was, succeeded
in escaping. A man who doesn’t know lead poisoning from appendicitis,
can’t monkey with Tommy Baker’s domestic economy, you can just bet your
life on that!
“Through the kindly offices of one of my friends I succeeded in getting
accommodations in a stable near by, where I lived on mice and wind for
three weeks, at the end of which time my wound was entirely well. I had
more wind than mice on my stomach most of the time, but the dieting
evidently did me good. I finally went home, and you never saw such
rejoicing as there was among the children. They hugged me ’most to
death.
“The doctor was always kind to me, but at times his attentions were
quite marked. He often kept me in a little room by myself for days and
days at a time. He fed me with his own hand, and was very careful of
my health. He took my temperature and pulse, and looked at my tongue
twice a day. Sometimes he put a little needle in my back and seemed to
be squirting something under the skin. It didn’t hurt much, but I felt
mighty funny a little while afterward. Queer, wasn’t it?”
Fido, who had had diphtheria once and was up on toxins, smiled rather
pityingly and said, dryly, “Rather.”
“I never doubted the doctor’s honesty of purpose but once. There was a
little room just off the library that he called the laboratory. He used
to shut himself up in that little closet--that’s about all it was--for
hours at a time. Now it wasn’t any of my business, but I couldn’t help
being curious to know what he was doing in that little den. Then, too,
I was certain that I smelled nice fresh meat just as he came out one
day. Of course that completely demoralized me and I determined to look
into the matter. Ah me! why did I not remember that old story about
Bluebeard?
“Well, I watched my chance, and one night when the doctor had his back
turned I sneaked into the laboratory, the door of which was slightly
ajar. Noticing that he had left the door open, the doctor came back
and closed and locked it, leaving me a prisoner. I was not frightened,
however, for I was sure the doctor would soon be at work in the
laboratory again and give me an opportunity to escape. I chuckled to
myself, wretch that I was, to think that my curiosity was at last to be
gratified.
“Jumping upon the table that the doctor used as a work bench, I saw
a sight that froze the very whiskers on my cheeks! There, spread out
upon the table lay the ghastly, mangled, lifeless body of a cat whom I
recognized as one of my best friends! I fell in a dead faint.”
“Sort of a cataleptic fit--eh, Tommy?” said Fido, with a sly, humorous
twinkle in his eye. Tommy disdained to answer, and continued:
“How long I lay in my swoon I do not know. When I awoke, the doctor
was standing over me and saying--
“‘I wonder how the devil that blamed cat got in here! He seems to be
sick.’
“Sick? Ye Gods! I should think I was sick!
“I never became quite reconciled to the doctor after that, and when,
some time afterward, he forbade the children to kiss and hug me any
more just because I ate some pickled stuff that stood on a shelf in his
office, I actually grew to dislike him.
“But everybody else loved the doctor, and I have sometimes thought that
perhaps I didn’t quite understand him. He was certainly good and kind
to everybody about him.
“Taken all in all, my life was a very happy one, and I not only had a
pleasant home, but after a time I got a real jolly old chum, by the
name of Towser. When Johnny first brought Towser home he ‘sicked’ him
on me, ‘just for fun,’ he said, and the old dog and I had a terrible
scrap. But I swiped him a good one under the eye, I tell you, and he
treated me fine after that.”
“Scrap? Swiped him? Why, what on earth do you mean, Tommy?” asked Fido.
“Oh! I forgot that you were an aristocrat, my dear Fido. I meant that I
had a fight with Towser and struck him under the eye. See?”
“Ah! now I comprehend,” replied Fido.
“Well, as I was saying,” continued Tommy, “I enjoyed life immensely.
Towser was a fine old fellow, and he and I used to romp and play with
the children most of the time.”
“Your life must indeed have been very happy, and I wonder that you
could ever have left so pleasant a home, friend Tommy,” said Fido.
“Ah! my dear old friend, there was never dream of bliss so fair that no
cloud e’er came to mar the beauty of its skies. Trouble came to that
happy household, and within a few weeks all was sadly changed, and I
was again a waif of the streets.
“The baby had been ailing for some time, and we could see that the
doctor was very uneasy about him. The poor little fellow finally
developed some brain trouble or other--I can’t remember the Latin name
of it, but I believe it was what old Dr. Cochran over at ‘The Corners,’
used to call ‘Water on the brain,’ or Meningeetus,’ or something like
that.
“Well, the poor little fellow didn’t stand his sickness very long. It
was just awful to see him wasting away, getting weaker and weaker
every day. He used to notice me quite a little at first, but after a
while he didn’t seem to know me any more. I had suspected this for a
day or two, but it seemed too horrible for belief. It was soon plain,
however, that dear little Harry no longer recognized those who loved
him, and for the first time it dawned upon me that my darling playmate
was soon to be called away forever. Baby dropped off to sleep one
night, and the doctor said that he thought the little one was better.
He deceived everybody but me--I had seen babies go to sleep that way
before, lots o’ times.
“As I feared, Harry never awoke again in this world. I heard Ethel say
the angels had taken him away to Heaven--a grand, beautiful place that
human folks say is up yonder some where beyond the clouds. If that was
true, the angels were mighty mean--for we were all broken-hearted.
“If Ethel was right about Harry going to Heaven, I hope there’s room
for dogs and cats up there. Poor old Towser fell sick and died soon
after the baby went, and I would feel better about the little one’s
death if I knew that Towser was with him. The faithful old dog used to
take such good care of the dear little pet. Then, too, I might see them
again some day, and we could live the old happy days over again. Don’t
mind my emotion, Fido, I loved Harry very dearly. Bless my whiskers,
old chap, if you are not crying too!
“After they had put our sweet little blossom into a cruel white,
frosted looking box and taken him away, the house seemed as gloomy as
an old cellar. Nobody ever seemed to be happy again. Ethel and Johnny
mourned after little Harry all the time, and many a time I caught the
doctor crying softly to himself when he thought no one was looking. He
didn’t think I understood, poor fellow.
“The doctor appeared to be more like his old self again, after a time,
but he seemed to work harder than ever before. He sat up very late o’
nights reading and writing--that is, when he had no patients to attend
to. My! how he used to slave over those people! And half of ’em never
paid their bills, either. The doctor didn’t mind the poor ones, but he
used to say that ‘God’s patients’ never gave him half so much trouble
as ‘the devil’s patients.’ Sometimes I half suspected that the doctor
was working hard just to get little Harry off his mind, but perhaps I
was not a good judge of such things.
“Well, a man is not a horse; he can’t carry a big load very long
without breaking down, and the doctor soon showed signs of exhaustion.
It grieved me to see him going to pieces, but I was helpless. I felt
that it would be a very delicate matter to even attempt to advise him.
And so I was obliged to watch my unfortunate master dying by inches
before my very eyes.
“The end was not long delayed. The doctor finally contracted an attack
of that new-fangled disease--let me see, what do they call it? Oh
yes, ‘La Grippe.’ Instead of going to bed, as he should have done, he
slopped about in all sorts of weather until he got pneumonia. It was
all up with my poor master then--he died within a week.
“I had always supposed that doctors were all rich men, until I lived
with one. My master left a lot of bad accounts and a little life
insurance; that was all. Why, his wife even had to sell his books and
instruments to defray his funeral expenses.
“After the doctor died, everything was changed. The end of my happy
home-life was not far distant. The children were sent away to
boarding school after a while, and their mamma soon went to live at a
fashionable hotel. The home was completely broken up. I can’t tell you
how bad I felt when I saw all the furniture and things that the doctor
used to prize so highly hauled away to be sold.
“Heigho! ‘How soon we are forgot,’ as old Rip Van Winkle so truly
said. Well, I soon found myself homeless and a vagabond once more. I
have since had all sorts of luck--mostly bad, however. I have tried my
hand at almost everything, but have never been able to secure another
comfortable position. I was a lawyer’s cat for a while, but my family
pride came to my rescue after a time, and I quit the job. There is blue
blood in my veins, Fido, and though I may be down on my luck, I have
not quite lost my self-respect.”
“Ah! you are boasting of blue blood nowadays, are you, Tommy? How does
that happen?” asked Fido.
“Why, don’t you know about the cats that were found in the pyramids
along with Rameses and his folks?” asked Tommy. “You ought to read up,
my dear Fido.”
“Have you ever heard from the doctor’s folks since their home was
broken up?” asked Fido.
“Oh, yes; I have kept track of them right along. The doctor’s wife
finally married again and the children came home to live with her soon
afterward. I called at their house one night, and was unceremoniously
kicked out. Johnny and Ethel were grown-up folks and had no use for
cats any more, besides, they didn’t know me from Adam. I was just a
tramp cat, that was all, and was treated like any other vagrant.
“But I have got used to hard lines, and so long as I can capture an
occasional rat, I suppose I will be able to live. Once in a while a
nice pet canary or toothsome young chicken comes my way; then there is
great joy in the department of the interior.
“My health is none of the best, at times, and I don’t believe I shall
live many years, but the sooner to sleep the sooner to rest, and I
know that brave old Towser and dear little Harry are waiting for me
up yonder. Towser is still a loyal old dog, and Harry is not grown-up
folks, like Johnny and Ethel, but a sweet, winsome little baby boy as
of old.
“Well, Fido, old comrade, I have told you my story, and it is now
nearly midnight, so we must say good night. There is nobody to
complain when _I_ keep late hours, but it’s different with you. Good
jobs are scarce, and I don’t want you to risk losing yours. I will see
you next Tuesday evening if you like.
“Hello! it’s raining. There’s a cold wind blowing too. Awful weather
for the rheumatism and mange, isn’t it? You’ll get that pretty blanket
wet, Fido, my boy.”
“Oh, drat the blanket!” said Fido, “I’ll hurry along though. Good
night, Tommy.”
“Good night, Fido, good night.”
JOHNNY
A STORY OF THE PHILIPPINES
Johnny was a typic gamin from the Chicago slums. He never denied it,
and it would have been useless if he had; the ear marks were too plain.
What had impelled him to enter the volunteer service was a mystery.
Some of the men in the --th Illinois had been heard to say at the
company mess, that a difference of opinion upon matters ethical between
Johnny and the police was the main-spring that had worked the little
tough army-ward. Pertinent inquiries directed at the boy himself had
ceased abruptly when big Tom O’Brien, the battalion sergeant major, got
through swearing, and rubbing the bump on his head with which Johnny,
through the medium of an accurately aimed canteen, had decorated him.
Tom wound up with, “Byes, the little divil is too small to lick, an’
too big to monkey wid, so I’ll sarve yez notice that Mr. T. O’Brien,
Esq. will attind to his own business hereafter. An’ be Jasus,” he added
significantly, “the rist av ye’ll do the same, for be the same token,
I notice yez all be bigger than Johnny.” It was obvious that the boy
did not need a protector, but nevertheless, the warm-hearted Irishman’s
attitude toward him was a peace promoter in no mean degree.
No one had ever accused Johnny of patriotism. He knew all about the
blowing up of the Maine and thought it was a shabby piece of business,
the perpetrators of which should be punished. “But,” he added sagely,
“they ain’t hangin’ none o’ them strikin’ railroad guys, fer wreckin’
trains and sluggin’ scabs, an’ I guess there ain’t much difference.
There’s a lot o’ dead an’ smashed up folks, any way you fix it.”
It was evidently a hopeless task to try and elucidate for Johnny
patriotic reasons for the war with Spain. His philosophy was too strong
to cope with.
When Johnny first joined the regiment he was not a creditable specimen
from a physical standpoint. A subtle sympathy with the under dog in the
breast of the regimental surgeon, Major Brice, was mainly responsible
for the mustering in of the unpromising recruit. Slouchy in gait,
under-sized, weazened, lanky and round shouldered, with the air of one
pursued, the boy was as unsoldier-like as could possibly be imagined.
He said he was nineteen, but it did not require a professional eye to
detect the fraud--a fraud of several years--without much doubt.
The captain of K Company was very particular about the physique of
his men, and the surgeon and he had a confidential arrangement which
had kept out of the service many a man who might have passed a fair
examination before the army board. When Captain Harkins saw Johnny in
the ranks of the “rookies,” he gave a gasp of horror and ran post haste
to the surgeon’s quarters. He entered the tent rather unceremoniously,
somewhat ruffling the self-composure of its occupant, who was rather
austere and dignified at times.
“Ah, Captain,” said the surgeon, “what’s the trouble, somebody hurt?”
“Hurt!” exclaimed the captain, “Hurt! Great Scott! I’m paralyzed. How
in Heaven’s name did you ever pass that little degenerate shrimp of a
gutter snipe that came in with that last batch of rookies? Is this a
practical joke?”
“I never make practical jokes,” replied the surgeon, serenely. “I had
a little whim of my own to gratify. Didn’t know I was whimsical, did
you? Well, I am, and that boy is my latest whim. I fancied the service
would be better for him than the jail. I had him assigned to your
company--well, because you and I understand each other pretty well, and
because I want him myself. Just reassign him to me for special duty,
and I’ll do the rest.”
The captain roared. “Well,” he said, when he had caught his breath,
“you have perpetrated a practical joke all the same, and landed good
and proper. You had me well nigh scared into a fit.”
Johnny, inscribed in regulation form as John Blank, on the muster
roll of K. Company, was formally assigned to duty in the hospital
department, and the following morning found him standing at the door of
the surgeon’s tent, a full-fledged orderly, with a rudely extemporized
cross of red flannel upon the arm of his “big brother” blouse. There
was a little quiet snickering at the surgeon’s expense, but this
soon died out, for the man of saws and pills was sensitive, somewhat
muscular and, above all, wore the maple leaf on his shoulder straps.
The colonel was very indulgent with the surgeon; he knew his failings,
and when his eyes fell upon the new orderly, he smilingly remarked
to the adjutant, “I hope the major will be able to raise that slummy
looking chap to be a soldier, but I’m afraid he has a big contract on
his hands.”
But the surgeon was a practical humanitarian who believed in a
physical basis of things moral. He had a hobby, as the new recruit
soon discovered. Johnny was daily put through a course of physical
“stunts” that made his life something more than a glad, sweet song.
He was a little rebellious at first, and his instructor had hard work
to keep him from deserting. Through the connivance of the colonel,
however, who had the boy brought before him after some very flagrant
act of insubordination and depicted to him in vivid colors a vision
of an early morning firing squad, Johnny was brought back into line
again and went on with his stunts. He was just a little suspicious of
the “Old Man’s” seriousness, but after the major had informed him that
the colonel was a man of great earnestness of purpose and absolutely
devoid of regard for human life--blood-thirsty, in fact--he became in a
measure reconciled to what at first seemed to him a hard lot.
But as Johnny’s training proceeded, he was conscious of a new and
unwonted interest in life. He began to have a sense of physical
strength, and felt an increase of energy that made his course of
physical training pleasurable. His shoulders were beginning to set up
and back. It was no longer necessary to either drive or coax him to his
task of self-development. The surgeon was meanwhile devoting such time
as he could steal from his daily routine of antidoting the endeavors
of the government to prepare our soldiers for Cuba by killing them in
Tampa, to stimulation of the mental side of the neglected boy of the
streets. Johnny had innate capacity enough but, as the major said, he
had never in his whole life had any healthy blood to feed his brain,
hence the development of the latter was not possible until now.
The men of the regiment scarcely appreciated the gradual change
in Johnny. He unfolded just as a plant unfolds. Growth was there,
steadily going on. The major knew, and the colonel remarked upon it,
but the rest did not comprehend until one day the street boy stripped
to the buff and, urged on by the mock encouragement of some of the
privates, entered an improvised ring for a “friendly” contest with
an ex-professlonal, who had entered the service chiefly in search of
novelty in the way of recreation. When the affair was over with,
and the amateur referee had finished the rather prolonged count over
Johnny’s opponent, Tom O’Brien said delightedly; “Begorra, the byes
didn’t get a run fer their money. Yez kin all poke fun at Johnny now,
an’ ask him all the sassy quistions ye loike, an’ divil a wurrud’ll I
say to yez, unless yez go in more than wan at a toime.”
It was evident that Johnny had become soldierly timber, and it was not
long before the captains vied with each other in coaxing him to apply
for a transfer to their companies. Captain Harkins alone refrained from
urging the boy to return to the ranks. He might simply have assigned
him back to company duty, but as he remarked to the colonel, he felt
that “Johnny belonged to the man who had made a soldier out of him.”
The major was not ignorant of the change in sentiment regarding his
protegé. Desiring to be fair with him he said, “Johnny, some of the
officers are beginning to think a little better of you than they used
to. Captain Harkins is entitled to you, but seems to think you ought to
have a chance to use your own discretion in the matter of going back
to the ranks. Taking care of my horse and tent, and rolling bandages
for me is possibly not so much to your liking as being a real, fighting
soldier. We shall probably go to the front soon. The war isn’t over
yet, and they can’t keep us in Florida forever, so we are likely to see
some pretty hot times in Cuba. If you want to go back to the company
just say the word, and back you shall go.”
Johnny stood at the door of the major’s tent for a moment looking at
the gorgeous southern sky. When he turned toward his patron his eyes
were wet.
“Did you think I’d do that, sir?”
And the major replied, “No, Johnny, I didn’t think you would.”
But the war did end very soon, and the pride of the Brigade, the --th
Illinois,--athletes, every mother’s son of them,--did not get out of
Florida and into Cuba until there was nothing remaining to be done
save policing that fair and unfortunate island. As soon as orders came
to leave for Cuba, Major Brice tendered his resignation, intending to
return to civil life and resume his practice. Johnny was disconsolate.
Police duty in Cuba was not an inviting prospect--he recalled that
he never did like the policeman or his works, on principle. Chicago
had no attraction for him. He had been born in the army. His previous
existence, he said, “didn’t count.” He had begun life in the major’s
tent, and when that tent came down there would be no longer home life
for him. The major was deeply touched by his protegé’s devotion, and,
quite alive to the fact that Johnny would be a pretty helpless member
of any society but the army, interested the brigade commander, who had
been assigned for duty in the Philippines, in his case.
Through the combined influence of the general and the major, the boy
received his discharge, and was immediately reenlisted in the --th
Montana, then preparing to start for Manila. The bluff old general
said: “Everything’s over in Cuba, but I suspect that nothing’s begun in
the Philippines; In my opinion, h--l’s brewing in Manila, and unless
my experience in fighting Indians is worthless, I feel pretty safe
in saying that those d--d brown-skinned fellows out yonder are going
to give your Uncle Samuel a devil of a lot of trouble before we get
through with ’em. Dewey didn’t do a thing to us, not to the Spaniards,
when he took Manila. That Montana regiment is as liable to get into a
mix up as any of ’em--they’re scrappers all right--and it’s just as
well for that orderly of yours to get in on the ground floor. But,
Major, will he fight?”
The major’s eyes twinkled as he replied, “Don’t worry yourself about
Johnny, my dear General. He’ll give a good account of himself. He is
a good soldier by profession, even though I could never cure him of
profanity nor teach him what patriotism means. He regards fighting as a
vocation, but believes in attending to it for all he is worth.”
As the general had said, trouble had not yet begun in the Philippines.
It came soon enough, and Johnny got in on the ground floor with a
vengeance. When the fighting finally began he was, to use his own
vernacular, “on the spot,” which fact, as he jestingly remarked,
gave him for the first time the privilege of enjoying “the luxury of
more name than ‘Johnny’.” His comrades exclaimed, apropos of his new
cognomen, “Holy smoke! how it fits.”