“HE STAYED NOT FOR BRAKE AND HE STOPPED NOT FOR STONE”
Gwen and Jan, with Gladys accompanying them protestingly, and with an
air suggestive of being about to walk on the other side of the street,
were on their way home from school. Except for a slight tenderness
lingering about her reddened palms, Jan’s hands were healed, and she
had resumed her former life, very glad to get back to the world of
fresh air and sunshine. It was late November, and the air around the
park was full of suggestions of country odors--the sunshine soft and
warm through the haze overlapping from Indian summer.
There were rumors afloat of great events to come, events of absorbing
interest to all the young people. First of all, Sydney’s school was to
have a tournament at Thanksgiving, in which not only were there to be
races--foot and bicycle races--and wrestling matches, and jumping, as
in most schoolboy tournaments, but there were to be tennis-matches,
singles and doubles, and in the latter girls were to compete, the lads
being allowed to ask sisters or friends to play with them. Sydney had
very little to do with the girls of his household, but when the hour
came that he was to strive with his mates for honor and prizes family
pride stirred, and Gwen and Gladys were profoundly interested. They
were to go to see the games, and Gwen, at least, who was fonder of
sports than Gladys, wished with all her heart that Sydney would ask her
to play the tennis-match with him. She felt quite certain that with a
little practise she could hold her own against her adversaries. Jan
kept discreetly the secret that she had been champion of the girls’
singles at home, but though it never occurred to her to wish for the
impossible--that Sydney might ask her to play with him--she was very
much excited at the prospect of the games, and nervously reiterated
that “she was sure Sydney would win.” And more thrilling, though less
definite, was the rumor, gaining force every day, that something
splendid and unusual was to take place at “the Hydra” in celebration
of the Christmas holidays, and though there was no possibility of an
answer, each girl asked every other girl daily what she _did_
suppose it would be, and if they thought everybody would take part.
It was this indefinitely glorious prospect which Gwen and Jan were
discussing volubly as they walked home in the soft November sunshine,
Gladys occasionally adding a word from inability to maintain perfect
silence.
There was a knot of men and boys gathered ahead of them, and Jan
quickened her pace. She was so constituted that she could not see such
a gathering without her first thought being that perhaps some one was
maltreating a helpless animal, and her quick impulse was to fly to the
rescue. As the three girls came nearer they saw that this time what
Jan feared was really happening. A poor little dog, hair matted and
body thin, was in a convulsion on the sidewalk, and the crowd, with the
usual stupid terror in such a gathering of an animal showing symptoms
of sickness, was kicking the poor little creature from side to side, as
he staggered about blindly, instinctively trying to get somewhere, but
with no power in his tortured brain to select that somewhere.
“Put him in the gutter!” cried a voice, its owner evidently having a
vague recollection that water was the proper treatment for spasms. A
rough hand caught the dog by the tail and threw him into the gutter,
still wet from flushing the street from the hydrant. The bewildered
creature staggered to his feet and essayed to escape from the puddle
into which he had fallen, but the heavy boot of a laborer kicked him
back.
Jan saw no more--indeed she had not stood seeing all this, but had
witnessed the torture in agony as she and Gwen approached.
Dropping her books without looking to see where they fell, she started
on a dead run for the group ahead of her. Her hat flew off, her hair
began to break its bounds, but Jan did not think of appearances just
then. Like a young Valkyrie she swept down on the amazed men and boys,
who fell back before the vigor and suddenness of her onslaught, as
human beings generally give away to some one wholly in earnest.
“You brutes! You cruel, cruel, stupid men!” cried the clear young
voice, shaking with rage and tears. “To treat a little, tiny dog like
that! Don’t you see he’s sick? I only hope giants will come and torture
you the next time you’re sick! Give me that dog.”
“He’s mad, miss,” said the big workman who had given the last blow.
“He’s nothing of the sort. He’s in a fit, and he ought to be perfectly
quiet! I tell you, let me get him!” cried Jan.
The unfortunate little victim of this stupidity and brutality had
lain motionless for the last moment, and Jan bent over him tenderly.
“Dear little dog,” she said, “let me take you.” The brown eyes, full
of misery and pain--for he had recovered consciousness and was coming
out of the spasm--were raised to the pitiful face above him, and,
recognizing that at last here was one human being who had mercy, the
poor dry little tongue came out in an effort to lap the quivering chin,
just out of reach.
Taking care to keep her hands away from the dog’s teeth, which might
close on them in pain and with no intent to bite, Jan raised the
helpless creature in her arms. One leg hung limp, and the dog moaned.
“You have broken his leg!” cried Jan, turning indignantly on the crowd.
“Oh, how can you call yourselves human beings and treat a little, dumb,
helpless thing like that? They haven’t any one but us to help them! The
next time you see a dog sick that way lay him where he’s quiet and wet
his head, and don’t, don’t ever hurt him! He’s just had a spasm, and
now you’ve broken his leg!”
[Illustration: “You brutes! To treat a little dog like that!”]
The men began to mutter, but several looked heartily ashamed of
themselves. Some boys jeered at Jan, but she paid no attention. Turning
to Gwen, who had come up, she looked at her and down at the dog in her
arms, totally unable to speak.
Gwen was not less distressed than Jan. She did not even see that the
little yellow body was dripping mud on the front of Jan’s dress. “We
must take him to a doctor, Jan,” she said. “You are an old trump to
drive down on the crowd like that! I always want to do something, but I
don’t quite dare.”
“It isn’t daring. I don’t stop to dare--I rush,” said Jan. “Where is a
dog-doctor, and how shall we go?”
Gladys stood afar, witnessing this incident with unspeakable horror.
A girl to rush madly down on a crowd like that, harangue them, and
take up a muddy, mongrel cur in broad daylight, and on Fifth Avenue!
And Gwen, not much better, to follow her! She picked up Jan’s books as
if they had been dynamite, and walked away with her head in the air,
too disgusted for adequate expression. Jan was a gipsy. She certainly
looked like one, with her hat off and her hair frowzy--reddish hair,
too! Gladys had not noticed before how red the brown was in the
sunshine.
But if Gladys was repelled and offended anew by Jan’s quixotic
behavior, there was another member of the house of Graham who, unseen,
viewed the incident with different eyes and feelings. Sydney, also just
returning from school, had seen Jan sweep down on the men and boys,
scattering them before her, and rescue the dog by sheer force of will
and justice, and, seeing, he had been warmed into generous enthusiasm
and admiration, for Sydney was a manly boy, and he loved animals.
Now he hastened to his cousin’s and his sister’s support. “Good for
you, Jan!” he cried. “You’re a regular knight without fear and without
reproach.”
Gwen and Jan looked up in amazement. Could this be Sydney? The color
had mounted high in his cheeks, his eyes were flashing, his lips
smiling. There was not a trace of the sullenness and reserve Jan had
thought the only manner she should ever see in her oldest cousin, as he
took off his cap in exaggerated, yet sincere deference, and held out a
congratulatory hand.
“How is the poor little beggar? What an outrage! They’ve broken his
leg! Bad enough to have a fit without being kicked and punched! A crowd
makes me so mad I could knock all the heads together! It always thinks
every half-starved beast has hydrophobia, and then to make sure there
is something wrong, proceeds to stick and stone it. I’m proud of you,
Jan! It’s great to see a girl who doesn’t stop to curl her hair when
there’s something to be done! Gracious! You came down like a wolf on
the fold--the Assyrian isn’t in it with you! What are we going to do
with your find? I hate to chloroform him.”
“Oh, can’t we cure him?” asked Jan pathetically.
“I can’t set legs, but I shouldn’t wonder if we could pull him through.
What about lunch?” asked Sydney.
“Oh, I don’t care about any lunch!” cried Jan eagerly. “It would be
cruel to make him wait with his leg broken. Tell me how to get to the
doctor, and I’ll take him there.”
“Have you the price of a hansom, Gwen? I’m broke--as usual,” said
Sydney, his face clouding. “If you’ve any change I’ll go with Jan and
the dog down to the doctor.”
“Here’s my purse,” said Gwen. “There are two dollars in it and some
small change. I’d just as lief go, if you’re hungry, Syd.”
“Hungry! Of course, but it’s my business to protect Janet. Hi, there,
cabby!” And Sydney hailed a cab a little farther up the avenue, which
rattled down on them at once.
“Pile in, Lochinvar. You deserve your name,” cried Sydney. And Jan
obeyed, wondering if she were dreaming, and if this offhand, genial boy
could be morose Sydney.
“Poor little doglums!” Sydney went on. “You hold him well, Jan. Say,
why aren’t more girls like you? You’re straight girl, ready to cry
over that dog this minute--I’m no end sorry for him, but I don’t feel
teary. And you hold him as if he were your youngest child, and you had
taken care of six of his brothers before him. Now that’s girl for you!
Yet you don’t care a bent copper for what any one thinks, and you make
yourself look like a tramp--hair flying, hat off, books any old place,
and you get mud on your dress from the poor beggar, and you drive
down Fifth Avenue, and it never crosses your mind to consider whether
you look respectable or not. You burst through a tough crowd without
fear of it, or of comment. And all that’s not only straight boy, but
it’s a mighty decent sort of fellow at that. I never saw a girl like
you--you’re the right stuff, Miss Lochinvar, and I didn’t know how
appropriate the name was when I christened you.”
“I’ve been brought up with boys--Fred’s your age, and we’re chums--and
then there are all the others,” stammered Jan, hardly knowing how to
receive this outburst of most acceptable compliments. “I guess there
are lots of girls like me, if you know them. Gwen’s the right sort,
too, and Dorothy Schuyler, and I know ever so many at home.”
“Gwen’s well enough,” said Sydney, with brotherly indifference. “I
don’t know Dorothy Schuyler. Gladys makes me very weary. I wonder if
she’s going to come this airy-fairy business all her days? Here’s the
doctor’s. Give me the patient while you get out.”
“I’m afraid to move him for fear it will hurt him. I’ll get out without
taking hold--I don’t need my hands,” said Jan. But Sydney steadied her
elbow, and she thanked him with a bright smile.
The doctor was at home, fortunately. He was one who loved his
profession and loved his patients. He handled the little waif the
children had brought to him as tenderly as he would have touched
the best-blooded dog, strapping him down carefully, and setting the
broken leg expeditiously and successfully. As he worked he heard the
story of the dog’s rescue through Jan’s wild onslaught, and he smiled
approvingly at the girl who loved those whom the gentle saint of Assisi
called “our little brothers,” and who dared for their sake. When the
work was done he refused his fee, saying that he was glad to contribute
his skill to the little dog who had fared ill at the hands of men.
“Are you going to keep him?” asked the doctor.
Jan referred the question to Sydney with a glance that betrayed her
longing to do so.
“Oh, yes. We’re going to keep him, and put flesh on these poor ribs of
his. And we ought to call him Andromeda, because Janet here rescued him
from the dragon,” said Sydney.
“But Andromeda was a beautiful girl,” objected Jan.
“Well, Andromedus, then--Drom for short. I’m sure his state was rocky
enough to make it appropriate on that count,” laughed Sydney. “Good-by,
doctor. We’re no end obliged. You think the poor fellow will pull
through?”
“I’m sure of it, with your care,” said the doctor, holding the door
for his visitors to depart, and watching them down the stairs. He liked
the frank, warm-hearted pair immensely.
“Goodness, Sydney, it’s three--ten minutes past!” exclaimed Jan,
glancing at the clock on the Grand Central Station.
“I don’t mind. Gwen will have luncheon saved for us--she’s a good
fellow when there’s question of helping beasties,” said Sydney. “And
I’m rather pleased to have made your acquaintance, Miss Lochinvar--the
real Miss Lochinvar.”
“I’ve been just dying to know you, Syd. I miss Fred so dreadfully,”
said Jan, smiling with irrepressible joy. “I think we might have real
good times--” She stopped abruptly.
“Say, Jan,” said Sydney, not noticing her embarrassment. “You can run
like a spider and you have courage and quick wit. Can you play tennis?”
“Why, I was girl champion at home!” cried Jan, blushing.
And Sydney slapped his leg, whistling with surprised pleasure. “The
very thing!” he cried.