But Murph was particularly admirable in the tricks he went through with
Jack. Each of the two friends seemed made to help out the other, and
each vied with the other in sacrificing himself to enhance the general
effect. Now it was “Mazeppa’s ride”; you know—Mazeppa bound on the back
of his fiery charger and borne on and on in wild career over the steppes
in a whirlwind of flying stones and smothering dust. Now it was a
_powder-play_ of Bedouins, pursuing, retreating, prancing, curvetting,
rising in their stirrups and brandishing their muskets; or else a mortal
combat between two troops of horse, firing at each other, reloading and
firing again. The spectacle, whatever it was, was always thrilling.
Murph would stand waiting in the side-scenes for his cue. Suddenly he
would give a spring, a tremendous spring, and like a bomb-shell he was
on the stage, with mane erect and flashing eyes; clearing every
obstacle, upsetting everything he encountered, animate or inanimate, he
hurled himself on to the boards; on his back, clinging to his woolly
coat, shaking and shivering, teeth hard set and mouth awry, rode a
little black figure wrapped in a voluminous burnous that flapped in the
wind.
And bing! bang! bang! as his steed dashed by, with all the flash and
dazzle of red saddle braided with gold, scarlet bridle, and red, green,
blue spangles, shaking the boards, rattling the lustres, rustling the
curtain, to reiterated cries of “Hi! hip! hurrah, hurrah!” and the crack
of the whip going off like pistol-shots behind, Jack would fire off his
gun over and over again, till he was shrouded in a cloud of smoke,
through which he could be discerned still tireless, still indefatigable,
bestriding Murph in every possible position, now perched on the neck,
now on the crupper. He seemed made of iron, the frail little being!
Murph might prance and jib and shy, buck-jump and leap fences—nothing
could unseat Jack. The performance over, the latter would shake his
little head under its jockey-cap two or three times, by way of bow, and
so exit, as his friend the poodle gave one last tremendous bound that
carried him and his rider out of sight.
The enthusiasm of the spectators followed him behind the scenes, and the
floor trembled and shook under the drumming of heavy boots. The applause
grew deafening, and suddenly Jack and Murph made a final whirlwind dash
across the stage, executed a last frantic _fantasia_—and retired for
good and all.
X
But, alas! Murph was getting old. His exertions tired him dreadfully;
after each performance he had to be rubbed down and attended to, or he
would have lain moaning and groaning for an hour.
His master was sorry for him, and with deep regret—for he saw no glimpse
among his troupe of any talent to take the place of the “falling
star”—he set him to do his more quiet tricks—playing dominoes, finding
handkerchiefs, walking on bottles.
At the same time he resolved to try a young poodle to fill the hole in
the receipts his good, faithful Murph’s retirement was bound to make. He
trained the animal to run in circles, to leap through hoops, to clear
obstacles, and one fine day clapped Jack on his back.
Banco—that was the poodle’s name—had not gone three steps before he was
bitten, beaten, garrotted, and left blinded and bleeding. The master
punished Jack severely, and presently made a fresh attempt. But, no—Jack
_would_ not obey; he tore Banco’s ear in two, and then sprang from the
saddle and hid himself in a dark corner.
Much the same thing happened at every new trial. The whip was no sort of
use; Jack was not to be moved. At last, wearied out, the showman gave
in, and Jack and Murph remained inseparable, living and working together
as before.
One night Murph came in from his performance utterly worn out, his
tongue hanging out of his mouth and his strength exhausted; his midday
meal had proved indigestible, and, to cap all, the applause to-night had
been faint and feeble.
Ah! few of us know how actors live on that elusive thing, the favour of
the public, and what renewed force, when they are grown old and have one
foot in the grave already, what fresh vigour the smiles of a delighted
audience instil in their veins, when the blood is beginning to run
feeble!
No, the thankless audience did not for once acknowledge Murph as their
old favourite, the veteran of the boards, the good and gallant beast
that had so often been their darling and their delight. Under his
outward show of indifference Murph hid a vast fund of sensibility, and
the coldness of his audience cut him to the quick, coming so soon after
his late successes. He thought the dark night of public neglect was
beginning for him; he realised his loss of vigour, his waning energies,
and, like other old players, he saw himself superannuated, out of date,
unknown, and misunderstood by a new public, become a mere shadow on the
scene of his former triumphs. Add to this his master’s evident
ill-humour, as he foresaw the inevitable moment when his old servant
would be a mere pensioner on his bounty.
Murph staggered off, and fell panting on the rug that formed his bed.
Then Jack came to help him; but, alas! even Jack could not console him
just at first. Murph rejected his friend’s ministrations, so bitter was
his rancour against mankind. But his pique was soon over, and his
wounded heart found healing under the gentle hand of his lifelong
companion.