THE COMING OF THE PRINCE
Vanart VI. sat on the edge of his dish, with all of his four paws in
the milk, and barked fiercely at his small sister, who hovered, shy and
meek, on the farther edge of Elysium. He knew what all dogs (and some
men) know, that Might is Right; and he reasoned, not uncleverly, that
if his four-weeks-old voice could intimidate Sister Belle, he could
certainly keep her off until he had feasted and made sure of his own
share.
A ray of afternoon sunlight crept in through the skylight of the big
New York studio, and lighted up this scene, just as Bob Grant opened
the door, looked for the cause of the commotion, dropped his parcel of
sketches on the floor, and laughed.
“You greedy little sinner! Is that the kind of a dog you are going to
be? You’ll be needing some discipline, I’m thinking. Come here to me,
you young nipper.”
The wee morsel looked up for an instant, beheld Bob Grant, and
continued barking--at _him_. He held his head royally, too, as if he
knew that he was the King of Hearts, bearing a noble name, and with a
long pedigree behind him.
“Why, you’re a raving beauty, even now. And, if I am not mistaken,
you’re mine. Who your young companion is I don’t know. I hope to Goshen
Billy didn’t send me the two of you!”
No thought of a master entered Van’s mind at that time. His attention
was on the milk, and so intent was he on asserting his rights, that he
quite forgot to drink. The Dog in the Milk was evidently first cousin
to the “Dog in the Manger.”
Bob opened the letter that was tied to the basket in which the puppies
had arrived. Uppermost lay the register of birth and ancestry. It read
like this:
“Vanart VI.:--born March 26th, 1902. Smooth fox-terrier. Color--white,
with chestnut-brown head and saddle and spot at base of tail.”
Then followed his father’s name, Vanart I.; his mother’s, Queen Mab,
and a long list of forefathers and foremothers. Bob Grant read, and
learned that Vanart I. was born in the Royal Victoria Kennels at
Montreal; that _his_ father was the famous Rex, which means king;--all
down the line appeared royal names.
So it was apparent that our hero was very well born indeed,--a prince
of the blood, and heir by grace of his own personal beauty and
attractions to his great father’s title. The latter fact was explained
in the letter that lay underneath the register:
“Dear old Bob:--So sorry not to find you in, and I wish I might stay
to know what you think of the puppy. The janitress let me in, and
I’ve fixed things up as well as I could. I don’t believe they will do
much damage before you return. You know I promised you one sometime,
and here he is.
“His mother is Queen Mab, of the Newark Kennels, and as this is the
fifth year of my Van’s fatherhood, your treasure’s full name is
Vanart VI.... He wins the title, as he is the pride and beauty of the
family.
“I think you will like him because he is marked something like his
father. Please pardon me for bringing his sister Belle with him; the
mother could not take care of so many.
“I will come after Belle in a day or two. I hope you’ll like your
gift. Good luck to you,--Billy.”
Bob laid aside the letter and turned his attention once more to the
problem at his feet. No doubt at all as to which was his own puppy. Bob
picked Van out of the dish, wiped the milk off his feet, and introduced
himself.
Van did not cringe, or try to get away, but looked up from the big
hand that held him, into the face of the young man, with a fearless
confidence, and fell to chewing Bob’s finger, as if it were the whole
business of life.
“Well, Vanart VI., you are here, and I hope a kind Providence will tell
me what to do with you. For the present I’ve got to put up with you
somehow. Two of them,--Oh, Christmas!”
“Woof!” said Van, affably, and he bit Bob’s thumb a little harder, just
to show him that the chosen son of Vanart I. and Queen Mab was not to
be trifled with, and that, in reality, he owned Bob. But the merry
little eyes twinkled gayly, as if, after all, this being the Lord of
Creation was a good joke.
For two weeks--while he was getting his breath, you might say--Van
lived in the big New York studio with Bob Grant. Every day he grew
in grace, and became, more and more, a shapely, active little dog.
Beautiful indeed he was. Even in his young puppyhood he was lithe
and agile as a kitten. His feet were small, as became his birth and
breeding; he carried his brown head proudly on his delicate neck, that
arched as none but a thoroughbred’s might. His soft, pointed ears
were alert to all the new noises of a strange and interesting world,
and he wagged, or was wagged, by a funny bud of a tail, which every
well-brought-up fox-terrier knows is the style in good society. His
chest was broader than that of the ordinary breed, and his eyes were
dark and tender; and one who knew dogs understood at a glance that a
strain from some far-away bull-dog ancestor had added kindliness and
affection to the sometimes ill-tempered disposition of a full-blooded
fox terrier.
In those two weeks Van learned many things. One was that pins are not
good things to play with. Bob came in one day and found him on his
back, making queer little sounds through a rigidly open mouth, at which
he was pawing frantically to rid himself of something. Lodged between
his upper and lower molars was a pin which he had tried to swallow. Bob
removed it, and then Van barked and capered as if he had done a clever
thing. But he knew also that it was a thing not to be repeated.
The next thing he learned was that sisters do not stay with one always.
One day little Belle disappeared,--going out of the big New York
studio on the arm of Billy, never to return. Van did not mind that so
much. His short life had been all surprises so far, and he liked being
cock-o’-the-walk far better than sharing the glory.
So Belle faded from his little brain, like the other visions of his
border-land, and he quite forgot her in the excitement of the new and
wonderful things that he was learning. Until now the world had been a
constant series of changes, and more were to come; for so far he knew
nothing of the big out-of-doors.
Billy came in one evening, and stood looking down at the bonny bit as
he lay in his basket.
“Have you taken him out in Madison Square, yet, Bob?”
“Not yet. I’ve been too busy.”
“Get on your hat and we’ll show him the town. I’d like to see how he
will behave.”
He was wakened, yawning and blinking, crumpled gently under his
master’s arm, and they all went out into the soft May night.
First there was a long, bewildering street, full of noises and lights
that stunned and blinded the little Prince. For a moment he hid his
head in the folds of Bob’s jacket, and felt like whimpering at the
bigness of things. He himself was so small and new, and all this must
have been there before he came. He would certainly have to run to
catch up. Well, running was fun. He straightened up, settled himself
comfortably, and prepared to enjoy real living, no matter what happened.
People who passed looked admiringly at the uplifted, bobbing brown
head, and the wide-open, beautiful eyes that were awake to everything.
Some even stopped and patted him. He barked joyously in response, and
turned to fresh adventures.
And they came. Out of the street they turned into a bigger and wider
one. Then there opened out in front of them a great square place,--a
place with houses all around, and a roof very different from that in
the studio. It was soft and dark and green, and it waved and rustled
in the night breeze. There were many twinkling lights, and many, many
people. Some were moving swiftly, some slowly. Others were gossiping or
nodding on benches. It was all very wonderful.
Then, most astonishing of all, Van’s four little paws were set down on
a fuzzy, wet, cold carpet; and he stood alone in the very middle of
the whole wide world. Bob and Billy were simply bystanders; no hand was
upon him to restrain him; all this was his,--the trees, the lights, and
the starry dome above. Life began to unfold.
Afraid? Not he! He started at once on a voyage of discovery. There were
children there--the first he had ever seen. They beckoned and called
to him, and he trotted to them. They chased him and he scampered after
them, barking at their heels. He explored the grass-plots and a pansy
bed; he looked wonderingly at the fountain that rose and fell with a
throb of hidden power,--always falling and yet always there; at the
round basin of water that was like nothing so much as a giant milk dish.
Then he started for the people who were sitting in amused groups on
the benches, even the sleepy ones waking up to watch the dainty little
sprite.
“I’ll bet it’s his first night out,” said one fat old man who had been
reading a newspaper under an electric light, “but he’s game to his
ear-tips.”
“He’s a sport, all right,” said another. “See him go for that cross old
woman over the walk!”
The cross old woman looked down to see a small brown and white puppy
sitting confidingly on the edge of her faded skirt. She made a movement
as if to jerk it away, looked again, then stooped and patted the
winsome little head. Van seemed friendly. She stooped and picked him
up, and for a moment held him to her bosom, where nothing had lain
since the days when her hair was brown and her cheek smooth and rosy.
He looked into her eyes with his soft young brown ones, and all the
bitter hardness faded out of her face, as his delicate tongue flashed
across the tip of her nose. Then he gently nipped her hand, and
struggled to be off on fresh voyages of discovery.
Bob called to him, but he glanced at him defiantly, and ran in the
other direction. The fat man moved off down the walk, saying to others
as he went:
“Have you seen that pup over yonder? He’s sure some pup! Ha, ha! He’s
the whole show. Better have a look.”
A crowd collected to watch the tiny joyous thing: the old-timers who
studied the want and employment “ads”; the other shabby ones who were
busy swapping politics; the still shabbier ones who slept there with
their arms folded, their stubbly chins on their soiled shirt-fronts;
the casual passer-by,--even the policemen strolled up,--with an eye to
preserving peace and order, but remained to enjoy the fairy-like antics
of this new dweller in the world. Everybody forgot for a little while
that there were such words as “Keep off the grass.”
Van leaped for a June beetle,--missed it; a night moth winged by
him,--he chased it on flying feet, although his legs were still so
young and uncertain that he tumbled over every hummock in his path. A
child rolled a rubber ball toward him; he seized it and bore it to the
feet of his master, and lay down to demolish it. Bob rescued it, and
Van attacked a stick that a bent old man poked at him.
“You’re a bit of all right, and no mistake!” said the old man. “I bet
you can read the papers. Want to try?” He pulled the evening sheet out
of his pocket, and presented it to his young acquaintance.
Van closed his teeth on it, dragged it after him across the walk, and
sent the fragments flying far and wide.
Through the thickest of the crowd a seedy young man with a furtive eye
sidled to the inner edge of the onlookers. His hand flashed out as Van
gamboled near, and then--there was no Van on the dewy grass.
For a moment no one understood. It was all so sudden that no one
could tell who did it.--Yes, there was one who did,--a policeman who
was there to watch for just that very thing. The seedy young man had
reached the outer edge of the group and in an instant more would be
speeding down Twenty-fourth Street.
A big hand landed firmly on his coat-collar, another went into his
pocket, and out came Van,--dazed, but thinking it all part of the great
game the world was playing for his benefit. It was so quickly done that
the crowd hardly knew anything had happened, until those nearest saw
the thief wrench himself from the detaining hand and disappear in the
darkness. The policeman, glad of the chance to be so near the small
performer, held Van in the flat of one palm, and stroked him with the
other, as he passed him over to Bob.
“Here’s yer white elephant, young feller, and a foine wan he is. Ye’re
lucky to git him back. Them dog-pinchers is mighty handy with their
hooks.”
“You’re right,” said Bob. “They know a good thing when they see it. A
little more, and he would have been lost.”
“A little more, and yer dog ’ud be performin’ in a circus a year from
now. There’s manny a wan av us ’ud be likin’ to keep him.”
Bob and Billy walked back to the studio, and Bob said soberly:
“I like the little sinner, and it’s mighty good of you to give him
to me, but I can’t keep him here. City’s no place for a dog, and an
untrained pup at that.”
“Why don’t you send him up country?”
Bob thought a moment.
“Good idea! The very thing! Sister Kate’s just acquired a kid,--adopted
it, or something--up at the Hospital, you know. The kid’ll be lonesome
on the Hill-Top, with no companions. Off you go, Van,--I’ll take you up
there to-morrow. Kate’ll be surprised all right. They have never had a
dog or a chick or a child before, in the house, and it’ll do ’em good.
Ha, ha! I can see Dr. Johns’ eyes open; but he won’t turn him out, for
what Kate does ‘goes’ with the doctor, and what Bob does ‘goes’ with
Kate. Your destiny is fixed, young fellow. Missionary work for yours.”
[Illustration: “Sitting comfortably in the middle of Bob’s best silk
negligée shirt.”]