Jack had come as a solace to his old age; he had loved him as a friend,
almost as a son, with a truly fatherly affection.
This little suffering, delicate creature, so morbidly nervous and
excitable, had roused in him some mysterious instinct of protection,
that had grown little by little and ended by forming an unbreakable bond
of brotherhood. Ceaselessly he watched over his protégé, sheltered him,
defended him, kept for him the best of his bodily heat and his warm
heart. If a bullying animal ran after Jack, in one bound the latter was
beside Murph, who would show a determined front, that soon sent the
would-be tormentor to the right-about. One day, indeed, Murph, usually
so good-tempered, showed his teeth to the master himself, who, for some
small fault, had thought good to lift his whip at the little monkey. If
Jack was a-cold—and he was always shivering, blow the wind from what
quarter it might—quick he would slip between Murph’s paws and cuddle
against his breast in the warm, cosy place. Murph was Jack’s special
providence.
Thus they had been living for nearly half-a-dozen years. Never a cloud
had dimmed their good accord; never an angry snap of the teeth—never a
pettish fit; mankind might have taken a lesson in the art of friendship
from them. Thus they had grown old, loving, fondling, helping each
other, making between them the prettiest happy family ever known in the
world, never weary one of the other, but realising the ideal of the most
perfect union.
Mutual esteem further increased their affection. Murph had never seen an
ape more alert and clever, more intelligent and active than Jack; he
would gladly have stood for hours watching him performing his tricks,
clinging to the cords with his delicate, dry little hands, then hurling
himself into space to alight again on his feet, or else holding on by
his tail and swinging from earth to heaven on the trapeze.
On his side Jack—Jack the cynic, whose lack-lustre eyes seemed incapable
of any curiosity—admired his friend Murph as a creature of extraordinary
gifts.
And what wonderful things the good dog could do, to be sure! I have
mentioned some of them; I could tell of many others. Murph could climb a
ladder; Murph could walk along a line of bottle necks; Murph could nose
out the prettiest lady in the audience; Murph could play the
cornet-à-piston; Murph could smoke a pipe; Murph was almost a man.