VAN BECOMES A HERO
Van by this time knew the Hill-Top from end to end, and for miles and
miles on all sides. His four feet and his delicate nose had explored
the whole countryside. He hunted with Thatcher, he rode with the
expressman, he prowled whole mornings by himself. But, best of all, he
loved to chase after Betsy. As the days grew longer, the little maid
studied her lessons in the afternoon, and took her walk with Van after
dinner. She said to Mary one evening, as she routed Van out of his
basket in the kitchen,
“Where’s the whip, Mary? I must take it so Van won’t chase cats.”
“Ah, now, Miss Betsy, he won’t be afther hurtin’ the cats. He just do
be havin’ his little fun wit’ ’em.” Mary had no such tender feelings
where cats were concerned, and the Boy-Heart, as she called him, should
be allowed to follow his pretty little instincts.
“Fox terriers is intinded to chase cats, Miss Betsy, and whin he goes
out wit’ me I lets him have his pleasure. He do enj’y himsilf, to be
sure!” Mary would not have betrayed him if he had killed half a dozen
cats, and she rather unwillingly handed the whip to Betsy, who started
off with Van.
They skirted the lawn down by the row of maples, racing through the
soft grass, while Van barked at the long shadows, looking himself like
a thing of light in the level golden rays of the sinking sun. By the
flower garden they turned up, between the two goldfish ponds. Van cared
nothing for the ponds--water was only a thing to be avoided, anyway.
The biggest one was the very pond into which Thatcher had thrown him
when he was a baby. Betsy might stop, if she chose, to watch the
darting fish, but Van hurried through a tall hedge beyond. Here there
might be some hunting.
But all was still. They crossed back to the walk, and swung around the
South Building and into Bow Lane. There was a collie dog in the Lane;
he was a friendly old fellow, and Van stopped to pass the time of day
with him.
Down Bow Lane they went for a bit, and then turned into the grounds
again, this time behind the buildings. An English setter lived there,
but he was on a chain and did not count.
Now they came to a row of small buildings, and here, in the days of his
apprenticeship at the business, there had been a perfect harvest of
cats; cats to be chased through fences, cats to be treed, cats to be
caught by their fearful mistresses and hurried away to safety, at the
sound of Van’s bark. But now there were left only a few veterans that
backed up against walls and stood at bay, with two rows of sharp teeth
and twenty claws to bury in him, if he ventured too near. Van respected
these old, seasoned cats. Summer and winter they held their own and
defied him, and knowing that Betsy held the whip, he was easily gotten
past Cat Row.
Betsy heaved a sigh of relief, however, when the occasional spitting
and sputtering, barking and growling, was over, with no really violent
encounter, and they turned down past the carpenter shops, and came upon
Pig-Pen Alley. Here was the grand game of all the games.
The pigs, in general, took no notice of Van, but in and out of the pens
darted rats. At sight of Van they hurtled to cover in every direction.
They knew the enemy!
But to-night there was no sport, for Betsy did not encourage him;
instead she hurried him past these possible scenes of bloodshed.
Beyond Pig-Pen Alley they came upon Silver Street. Here lived two more
collies, who barked at Van and Betsy from behind a high hedge. On from
here they went up the grassy road, turned in at the gate, rounded a
clump of spruces, and were in sight of Dr. Johns’ home.
Right here Van, with a sense of having been cheated out of the best
part of the walk by Betsy’s womanish dislike for battle, decided for
himself that the evening’s entertainment was not over--not his part of
it, anyway. He turned suddenly, and went straight back by the way he
had come.
When Betsy went up the steps of the honeysuckle porch, there was no Van
at her heels. She called, but he was nowhere to be seen, and he made no
answer.
Betsy whistled and called to him in vain. She went into the house
greatly troubled.
“I don’t know what came over him, Aunt Kate. He seemed to forget
something and go back for it.”
“We won’t wait for him, Betsy. He’ll come back before long, as gay as a
lark.”
Meantime Van was alone and free to follow his own sweet will. Down
Silver Street he went, stopping to bark defiance at the two collies.
Then he turned to the left, and went towards Toby Hollow. Many times
had he been there in the daylight, but never before at night. It was
a delicious place, full of whispering mysteries of leaf and insect.
Little night noises and voices of the underworld babbled around him,
the trees bent above him, like friendly giants, and the Dark was soft
and warm. There were depths to explore that never existed in the
daytime. Here a squirrel swished past almost within reach of Van’s
nose; now a woodchuck crossed his path, and he tracked it to its hole
and waited there, long and vainly, for its reappearance. He would
remember that woodchuck, sometime, when Thatcher was there to help him.
The night had long ago pulled down its velvety curtains. Far away a
little rooster, who was just learning to crow, and was anxious to
get in extra practice, turned up his cracked little voice: “Ruckety,
ruckety r-r-r-r-r-r!” It made a stir through all the chicken yards
along the road; Van barked a reply. If that meant morning he must hurry
on with his night-prowling. Dew-wet but happy he turned back. The game
in Toby Hollow was too shy. He would go where he knew his ground better.
Pig-Pen Alley again. Betsy was not here to bother him now. He would
make a round by himself. Piff! there went a rat right across the alley
in front of him. Like a shot from a cannon went Van through the palings
and was hot on its track. Down the alley they skimmed along. If the rat
could only hold out to that corner it would be safe. It jumped for a
hole, but Van headed it off, and it turned into the darkness of the
great Cow Barn. There was no chance to turn or double--Van was too near.
All was quiet there, for it was late in the night, and good cows sleep
when it is dark. Mr. Rat scuttled along--the breath of the dog was on
him;--oh, for a place to hide!
At the far end, beyond the long rows of gently breathing cattle, was
an enclosed stall, built of cement, and strewn with clean straw. Just
now it was occupied by a mother cow and her baby calf, only a day old.
A sack of corn leaned against the stall, and with a leap the rat was
behind it. Van tipped the bag over, but at that instant the rat had
found a knot-hole in the wooden door, and was on the inside. Van could
not go through a knot-hole.
But there were other ways, and he did not intend to give up the
chase--not yet! The stall was only four feet high, and there was the
sack of corn. On this Van scrambled. With a leap he caught the edge
of the stall with his paws; a spring and a wriggle, and he, too, was
inside.
He landed on something warm and soft; a something around which the rat
ran, escaping again by the hole where he had entered; a something
which gave an astonished “moo!” at the disturbance of her rest; a
something which rose out of the pitch darkness like a black mountain.
Mother Cow would see what was destroying the slumbers of her baby and
herself. Huge and awful she was, for a mother cow with her little one
is no child’s toy. Had it been daylight she could easily have made an
end of poor Van, with her wicked horns.
As it was she stood there, blinking and grumbling, with a threat in her
throat, and a warning also to the wabbly baby, that crowded in behind
her great bulk, where it would be safe from danger.
Mother Cow was quite enough for Van, however. She stood there, fearsome
and menacing, and Van faced her--the biggest problem he had ever
tackled. She looked formidable indeed; he certainly could not get her
by the back of the neck and shake her. He decided not to rush the lady,
but to fight shy, and for time. He must be brave, look her down, and
not flinch.
He made no sound. Somehow the valiant little figure, standing his
ground before her, made Brindle hesitate about attacking in her turn.
She shook her horns threateningly, but took no step toward him. Van
stood motionless. The minutes crept slowly by.
At the far end of the big cow-barn appeared the light of a swinging
lantern. The night-watchman was going his rounds to see that all was
safe. Van gave one long howl. Perhaps he would be rescued. The man
hesitated--yes, he was coming!--No, he had decided that some dog
outside had made the noise. All seemed peaceful in the cow-barn, and he
did not go in, but disappeared down toward Cat Row.
Van whined despairingly, but the man was now out of hearing. Another
hour must be lived through before help could come again.
There was not one thing in the stall on which Van could climb and make
his way to safety, and four feet were more than he could jump. The
walls, bare and smooth, closed him in. There was no light, save that
which struggled through a high, cobwebby window, from the far-away
stars.
No help anywhere! nothing to do but wait and wait till the
night-watchman came back; always to hold his ground, and never to lose
his nerve! He squared himself to the task.
The baby calf grew chilly and cried. Mother Cow backed closer to it,
almost stepping on it with her great awkward cloven hoofs. It pressed
into the corner, and its little body was warmed against hers. It
stopped shivering, lay down, and at last slept.
The minutes went on, and the quarter-hours. Van slipped backward
slowly, warily, until he could brace himself in the far corner of the
stall. Always he kept his eyes on the enemy, his head lowered to point,
his stump-tail straight and alert, his forelegs ready for a spring, his
hind legs wide and rigid,--ready for the on-rush that might come at any
minute. He grew stiff and cold.
The chimes in the clock tower of the Middle Building sounded,--then the
great bell struck One! The light appeared again in the doorway. Van
whined.
“What’s that?” called the night-watchman.
Van did not answer. So a-tremble was he with eagerness and nervous
excitement that he did not think to sound again his alarm-signal.
The night-watchman looked in, but the aisle between the rows of cattle
was empty, save for the over-turned bag of corn. He lifted his lantern
high, and looked into the stalls nearest him. All quiet everywhere.
“Now he is coming,” thought Van, and he stood silent and quivering,
never taking his eyes from the enormous foe who seemed to grow bigger
in the dim lantern-light. She faced him as before, and neither made a
sound. The watchman turned, and went out into the night.
Van shuddered, and the great mountainous mass lowed ominously, and
swayed from side to side. If he stirred a hair out of his place she
would be upon him with her horns.
Another slow hour must creep around. Van’s nerves were near the
breaking point, but he must hold on. If only he could have done
something, it would have been easier. But he could not rush a monster
like that. He had no weapons with which to fight dragons. More than
one knight in the fairy tales has been chewed up because he attempted
the impossible, or lost his guard for an instant. He must simply stand
there, with every nerve and muscle in hand. He must not move, and thus
bring on the unequal struggle, in which he would certainly be killed.
If the struggle came he would fight, and fight to his finish. Until
then he must simply stand at bay. Help might come even yet.
Courage and endurance! Courage and endurance! Could he last another
hour?
The chimes struck the half-hour--three-quarters--then the welcome
One--Two! Soon the door would grow light again. Yes, there he was--the
watchman!
A quavering cry that was almost a sob, broke from Van. “Oh, come to
me!” he seemed to say, “I cannot hold out much longer.”
The Mother Cow swayed and grumbled, once--twice. She, too, was tiring.
Why not rush him and have it over?
“Hello!” said the night-watchman. “What’s the trouble? That sounds like
something in distress.”
This time he came in and went down the long aisle. At the very end he
stopped and looked over into the box-stall. There stood the cow in one
corner, with her baby lying huddled behind her, her great mother-eyes,
fierce with fear, looking straight into the brave brown eyes of a wee
dog. Even then Van did not stir. He must hold that awful thing back by
the force of his will, until the last moment of danger was over.
The night-watchman reached over and lifted Van out by his collar. At
his touch the little hero crumpled up with a piteous whine that went
straight to the heart of his rescuer. Then he lay still in the man’s
arms.
The night-watchman looked him over and whistled. On his collar he read
“Vanart VI.” He did not stop to read more.
“It’s the Boss’s dog, sure. Well, of all the pluck! He must have been
here two or three hours. I’m sure I heard something at twelve and at
one, but I never dreamed it was inside the building. How he held out
against that cow I don’t see. All mothers are fierce when their young
is in danger. You certainly have got the grit, young fellow. I make my
bow to you.”
He picked up his lantern and was off at a swinging stride toward Dr.
Johns’ house. Van lay silent until his breath returned, his heart
beat steadier, and his nerves lost their terrible tension. Then his
self-respect came to him. He could not bear to be brought home in a
man’s arms. Betsy or Mary might tote him around a little, if he were
tired or sleepy,--but any one else,--oh, no, indeed!
With a wriggle and a plunge he slipped from the hold of the astonished
night-watchman, who stood with his mouth open, watching him disappear
through the dark, like a small goblin, in the direction of home.
The man looked after him, and laughed.
“The little tyke’s a sport all right, all right! I sh’d think I’d seen
a ghost if I hadn’t had hold of him.”
Betsy lay in her bed, listening for the clear bark that would sound
across the lawn sooner or later.
Instead, at the very door of the house she heard a pitiful wail, and
she bounded up to let in a trembling creature, a little Prince, with
all the princeliness gone out of him; he looked no better than the
meanest mongrel that ever lived.
Not until the next day, when the night-watchman told his story, did she
know that her Vanny-Boy was a real hero.
[Illustration: “He was as proud as a peacock.”]