Then something stirred in the old dog’s brain. Did he recall his former
triumphs, the shouts of excited audiences, the encores, all the
intoxicating successes of his life on the boards? Did some vision of an
applauding multitude, of arms outstretched, and voices raised in
gratitude, amid the crash of trumpet and drum, in the hot air thick with
men’s breath and the fumes of powder—did some vision of all this pass
before the poodle’s dying eyes?
It was a strange awakening, at any rate. Murph sprang suddenly to his
feet, took a leap, and bounded on the stage, tail proudly swinging, and
head erect, Jack hanging on to his woolly coat. Delighted, entranced,
amazed, the poor little beast kept craning over to peer into his
comrade’s face, to see if it was really true, and watch the light of
life dawning and brightening in his deep-set eyes.
So his friend was himself again at last! So they were to begin the old
merry life again, to gallop and leap, and risk their necks as in the
dear, daredevil days of yore! Jack danced and pranced on the poodle’s
back, as if drunk with the delight of this miraculous transformation.
At sight of this great, hollow-flanked, unkempt beast, with his dirty,
greasy, tangled fleece, standing there stark and stiff, his legs
tottering under him, his body shaken from head to foot by a nervous
tremor, paws sprawling, back bending, a few scanty hairs bristling in
his tail—when the crowd beheld this pitiful ruin, to which Jack, alert
and debonair, Jack and his grimaces and contortions, Jack and his
caresses, the tender eyes he made, and the close, loving embrace he cast
about his comrade’s neck, all added a touch of comedy, at once sad and
irresistibly ludicrous, a mighty shout of laughter arose.
It burst like a rocket, then spread from row to row of the spectators,
till it ended in a tempest of merriment that from the audience extended
to the stage, and burst on the dying comedian who stood there.
Suddenly the dog’s legs gave way beneath him, and Murph fell over on his
side. His supreme effort had killed him; he had succumbed, as great men
sometimes will, at the very moment of their greatness.
He lay there, the death-rattle in his throat, the death-agony shaking
his poor body in a last, dreadful spasm. He opened his eyes wide,
unnaturally wide, in a stony, sightless stare, as empty as the heads of
the thoughtless crowd in front.
Then they came and dragged him off the scene.