One day Julius came home with invitations for a ball in honor of the
Governor, to be given in an ambitious embryo city across the lake. He
had learned that the little steamer was to make an extra night-trip
across on purpose to accommodate those who wished to attend, and that
some of our friends had planned to go in company, and wished us to join
their party. We had long intended to take the steamer trip across the
lake; the Governor's ball sounded inviting, also the night crossing with
our friends. We decided to accept.
The evening fell rather threatening, with flurries of wind and rain.
Still we were undaunted, and kept hoping it would clear off.
I filled Bruno's basin and platter, telling him he must take care of the
house and be a good dog. He seemed to understand all about it, and stood
at the window after we had locked him in, watching us go with perfect
composure.
It was still twilight when we started, and we could see his eyes shining
through the glass, as long as the house was in sight.
The weather, meantime, had not improved, and had we not promised to go,
we should certainly have given it up.
When we reached the wharf, we found that the little steamer's cabin was
in the sole possession of our party, all the others having backed out on
account of the weather.
We kept up each other's spirits with all sorts of absurdities, and the
boat was soon ploughing a foamy track across the big waves.
As soon as we steamed out from behind a point of land that sheltered the
wharf, we were met by a gale of wind that made the little steamer reel
and tremble as if from the shock of a collision. The lights were all
promptly extinguished, as the doors were forced open by fierce winds,
while we huddled together in a corner, and laughingly reminded each
other that it was a "pleasure exertion."
I shudder now whenever I think of that night, though at the time we did
not know enough about the possibilities to be frightened.
How the little boat pitched and tossed! The waves washed its lower
decks, again and again putting out the engine fires; we meanwhile
rolling in the trough of the sea until they could be rekindled. We had
expected to cross in about three-quarters of an hour, and return soon
after midnight; but it was along towards the wee sma' hours when we
reached the other shore. Then, when we heard the crew congratulating
each other, exchanging experiences, and telling what they had expected
to see happen to all concerned every time big waves had washed out the
fire, we for the first time fully realized the risks we had taken in
crossing.
We were weary enough not to be sorry that the ball was already over. We
looked in at its departed glories for a few minutes; and then, finding
it would be impossible to start back home before broad daylight, began
to look for a lodging-place.
The town was filled with people who had driven in from the surrounding
country for the ball, but we succeeded in getting two small top-story
rooms in the hotel, which were vacated for us by some sort of
"doubling-up" among the good-natured guests. The three men of our party
took one, and we three women the other.
It was about three o'clock when we retired to our room, and while the
other two slept on the one bed, I sat by the window trying to hurry the
dawn; wondering what Bruno was thinking, and how we should look, a party
of people clothed in evening array, returning home in broad daylight. As
if we had made a night of it, surely! I chuckled to myself as I compared
our plight with that of Cinderella.
We met at breakfast in the hotel dining-room, a queer-looking crowd. As
we laughed at each other's appearance, it was hard for each to realize
that he or she looked just as absurd; but an unprejudiced observer would
have found little to choose between us. As soon as the meal was over,
the three men started out to find a way to get us all home again.
Everything seemed to conspire to delay us, and it was half-past twelve
at noon when we entered our own gate, the click of the latch bringing
Bruno's face to the window with a series of joyful barks.
Poor fellow! His long confinement to the house, his empty plate and
bowl, his joyful reception of us, and then his springing out to dash
round and round the lot, filled our hearts with compassion.
As soon as his first burst of enthusiasm was over, he came in, and crept
up to me with dejected ears and tail, which in his language meant "mea
culpa." I asked,--
"What is it, Boonie? What's Boonie been doing?"
Still lower sank head and tail, and his knees began to weaken. I made a
hasty survey of the sitting-room, and then I understood. He had slept on
the lounge, a thing he was strictly forbidden to do.
"Oh, Boonie!" I cried, "you naughty dog! Judith thought she could trust
you!"
At this his knees gave way, and he sank to the floor utterly dejected.
He would not rise, nor even look up, until I had forgiven and comforted
him.
The next time we had to leave him alone in the house, I built a
"booby-trap," with two light chairs on the lounge, which left him
looking so utterly crushed that I never had the heart to do it again.
But he never more transgressed in that way, so I felt that I had dealt
wisely with him.
It was a hard necessity which forced us to shut him up when we were
going where it would not do to take him. At first we had tried leaving
him outside; but we found that after we had been gone awhile, his heart
was always sure to fail him, and he would track us, turning up
invariably just in time to cover us with confusion, his own dejected
mien saying plainly,--
"I know this is against orders, but I just _had_ to do it."
He had a wonderful development of conscience. We sometimes thought that
this, as well as the other mental gifts of which he showed himself to be
possessed, were due to the shape of his head. His nose was very short,
and his forehead unusually high and well-rounded. Of course his life as
a close companion to humans and as a full member of a family circle, was
calculated to foster these mental gifts; but they were surely there, to
begin with. We might treat dozens of dogs just as we treated Bruno,
without developing another that would compare with him. He was unique;
and I shall always glory in the fact that he loved and trusted us. His
was a love not to be lightly won, nor, once given, ever to be recalled.