apartment--his bloody eyes starting from their sockets--his mouth
wide open, reeking with its lethal venom, and disclosing his cruel,
hideous fangs--he himself dashing headlong hither and thither, in his
ungovernable fury remorselessly laying low victim upon victim--we
ourselves imprisoned here, utterly unable to extricate ourselves?--Ah!
you may well shudder at the frightful picture! I forbear. But I repeat,
what should you do? Boys and girls, listen:--
“All that is necessary is sufficient presence of mind, together with
firm reliance on your nerves, and you will always be able to face and
avert the most appalling dangers. And this is the precept that I wish to
impress upon you: _Strive to acquire the habit of self-reliance, for no
habit is more important._”
“Yes, yes, boys and girls; mark that; always remember that precept;” good
Teacher Meadows cried, rising from his seat, and smiling approval.
But the darkened intellect of the juveniles could not take in the weight
of such a precept, and a faint murmur of resentment passed from mouth to
mouth. In the momentary interruption that ensued, Steve, who sat near
an outside door, rose and slipped out quietly. “I guess I’ll show the
professor and the rest of the folks what a _rabid canine_ is like!” he
chuckled sardonically.
But the scene still lies within the school-house.
The professor was in earnest, and he certainly seemed capable of making
personal application of his precepts, though, alas! he had never been put
to the test!
“What should you do in such an emergency?” he again demanded.
But he did not wish for an answer, and now he had the goodness to tell
the gaping children what he should do. “Without a moment’s deliberation,”
he said, “I should, almost mechanically, muster my strength, and prepare
to ward off the danger. Knife in hand, I should calmly await his
murderous onslaught, and when almost upon me I should disarm his fury by
ruthlessly stabbing him to the heart.”
To add force and illustration to his words, and to gain credit with his
hearers, the orator whipped out of his pocket a treasure of a knife,--a
knife, the possession of which would have shot a thrill of happiness
through any understanding boy’s heart,--and brandished it wildly, yet
gracefully, slaying myriads of imaginary mad dogs.
Certainly, he seemed master of the situation; but in an actual attack of
a mad dog he might have experienced some difficulty in getting his knife
out of his pocket, and opened, in time.
But where was the professor’s dignity? Why should he make himself
ridiculous for the pastime of idiotic school-children?
Although his spirit revolted at the thought of thus sacrificing himself,
yet his benevolence prompted him to do many strange things for the
instruction of the ignorant; and on this occasion, he labored not to
amuse, but to discipline them.
“Most magnanimous soul! most disinterested savant!” breaks in the reader,
struck with admiration for our noble-minded professor.
But when an audible titter ran round the company, the philanthropist
hastily pocketed his weapon. Not to be turned from his purpose, however,
he resumed his discourse, and artfully harrowed up the feelings of his
victims, pausing occasionally to pronounce, and amplify on, some wise and
weighty precept.
Teacher Meadows nodded his approbation; the tired school-children became
restless and thirsty; their feet went to sleep; they rolled their watery
eyes pleadingly. Still the strong-lunged enthusiast continued to hold
forth, seemingly taking a malicious pleasure in preying upon their
emotions.
Suddenly a distracted boy beheld an object that utterly demoralized him.
A piercing shriek of agony burst from his lips, and his eye-balls gleamed
like those of an ambushed highwayman.
_Chapter XII._
AN EXTRAORDINARY MAD DOG.
It is now in order to follow up giddy-headed Stephen, and see what mad
plot had been hatched in his fertile brain.
By turning back a little way, the reader will find that that hero left
the audience-chamber immediately after the professor had so vividly drawn
the onslaught of an imaginary mad dog.
“It would serve the crazy old shouter right to test his courage,”
he muttered. “What business have people to let such a man speak to
chicken-hearted little young-muns, all full of weak nerves, and awful to
bellow? He might scare some of ’em into fits! I know I’m fond of ‘boorish
tricks,’ as George calls them; but if Charley can talk that way about
hydrophobia and yellow dogs, I guess I can safely play this one nice
little trick. Why, this would only be in the interests of common sense!
And,” cheerfully, “_how Jim would yell!!!_”
Stephen’s mode of reasoning was exceedingly subtile--in fact, like the
speech of the philosopher on whom he contemplated playing a trick, it
is too subtile for our comprehension. But so long as it removed his
scruples, he cared not a goose-quill what others might think.
“Now,” he said to himself, “let me strike out my plans. First is, to find
my dog Tip; then, to white-wash him and paint him. But,” doubtfully,
“I’m afraid I can’t get any white-wash or any paint. Anyway, it would be
better and more natural if I could get him on the trail of some animal.
Poor Tip! It’s too bad to treat him so; but then it won’t hurt him any,
and if the professor keeps on working up their feelings, I guess there’ll
be a stunning howl when Tip bounces into the room, the very picture of a
‘rabid canine’!”
If Steve had tarried a little longer in the school, and seen the
professor as he flourished his murderous weapon, he would have thought
better of having Tip play the mad dog.
Hurrying along through the school-grounds, he finally halted under
a venerable and wide-spreading shade-tree, beloved by all the girls
and boys of the school. There before him, rolled up in a ball, lay a
vivacious-looking dog, sleeping soundly.
“Eh, Tip!” Steve said. “Good old boy! here you are, just as I hoped.”
At the first words the dog hopped up briskly, and began to caress his
master, frisking and barking to express his delight, and disporting
himself as only a pet dog can.
It is conjectured that our young readers may be curious to know what
species of dog this was. Alas! it is impossible to inform them. Neither
his master Stephen nor any other person in the village could affirm
positively to what particular species Tip belonged, but all agreed that
he was a dog of some sort. This much, however, is known concerning
him: He was of medium size and of divers colors, black and white
predominating, a universal favorite with all the heroes and heroines of
this history.
“Eh, Tip, are you glad to see me? Shall we have some sport? What do you
say to a run in the road?”
By way of answer, the dog seized his master’s pants with his sharp teeth,
and tugged playfully at them, his way of angling for sport.
“I guess you’ll do, Tip. You’ve got lots of fun in you, if I can keep you
going;” and Steve swung open the gate of the school-grounds and passed
out with a chuckle, Tip hard at his heels.
Then this giddy-headed boy and his unsuspecting dog turned a corner
of the fence, found themselves in a dusty and unfrequented lane, and
prepared for action.
“Now, Tip,” said the young rascal, “if we can make you run up and down
this lane till you get all covered with dust, and dirt, and slobber, our
fortune’ll be made! Come on, Tip; we shan’t need any white-wash nor any
paint. Eh, Tip?”
Going on a little farther, till they reached the river, this wicked
boy incited his dog to plunge headlong into the water after sticks and
stones. Then, returning to the lane, he urged the wet dog to course up
and down in the midst of the dust--sometimes after sticks, sometimes
after himself. The playful dog enjoyed the sport, and entered into it
fully. Soon he presented a woful appearance, but Steve unpityingly
spurred him on till he began to pant hard.
“Good!” cried he. “Pant away, Tip, and get yourself well covered with
slobber. That’s it! Run, now,--fetch him, Tip; go for him. There, roll in
the dust!”
Thus he continued, till the poor dog was fagged out. Then Stephen, even
Stephen, relented, and thought seriously of giving up his proposed
experiment.
But, ah! the reason was--
“I’m afraid, Tip, that if you _run_ back to school, you’ll be too tired
to scare them much, and if you _walk_ back, you’ll lose most of your foam
and slobber. And perhaps we might be too late, anyhow. Upon my word,” he
cried suddenly, “I never planned how I am to get you into the building! I
can’t go with you, and you can’t get in alone!”
In his indecision, Stephen retraced his steps to the gate of the
school-grounds, opened it, and with his eyes tried to measure the
distance from that place to the castellated school-house--Tip, meanwhile,
recovering his strength and sportiveness.
On a sudden, Fate interposed in the form of a muscular and war-worn cat,
which appeared leisurely crossing the school-grounds. Tip saw it, and
forgetting his weariness, furiously gave chase.
“Sic it, Tip! Sic it!” cried Steve, who, in the excitement of the moment,
apparently forgot his trick, and eagerly joined in pursuit.
Tip soon came up with his hereditary enemy, and a frightful combat
ensued. Instinct or the force of habit impelled warlike puss to fight
stoutly for escape, and he rained blows and execrations, (in the cat
language,) that would have done credit to a battle-scarred pirate, upon
his assailant.
Tip fought because of his “liking for the thing,” and because his master
was pricking him on to victory by such spirit-stirring exclamations as:
“Oh, sic it, Tip! Go for him! Beat ’em! Maul ’em! Sh! sh! sh!”
Rabid canine and outraged feline! Would that the professor could have
beheld the combat between them!
Presently the dog, with a piteous howl, ceased to fight, and rubbed his
head vigorously on the ground; whilst the cat, seizing its opportunity,
scampered away towards the school-house.
“Poor little Tip!” said Steve remorsefully, as he observed that his dog
was reeking with dust, froth, wounds, and _blood_.
In a moment, however, Tip was up again and in hot pursuit of the
persecuted feline, but, not wishing to risk another engagement, that
redoubtable warrior found refuge somewhere about the school. Not so Tip.
He dashed straight ahead, and made his way into the very room in which
were all the school-children, together with Professor Rhadamanthus and
Teacher Meadows.
Steve was close on the dogs heels; but on seeing this, he turned back and
shot off in despair.
“Oh!” he groaned, “this is worse than I meant it to be! Every one’ll
think that Tip is stark staring mad! O dear me! What shall I do! what
shall I do!”
Tips arrival was most opportune. Thanks to the professor’s vivid imagery,
all the scholars were perspiring with racking excitement, and so
blood-stained an apparition as Tip could not fail to create a commotion.
Tip still retained sufficient strength and agility to burst impetuously
into the room, and the sudden appearance of an animated mass of slaver,
wounds, and blood, was enough to unhinge the mind of any school boy in
the Union.
There were more than one hundred boys in the school; more than forty
had a stout jack-knife in their left-hand trowsers pocket; more than
thirty had one in their right hand trowsers pocket; some five had both
a penknife and a jack-knife about their person; about twenty phlegmatic
and chuckle-headed cubs--who took only a languid interest in anything but
peppermint candy, circus serpent-charmers, and noisy fireworks--had their
jack-knives out, and were trying to while away the time by rounding off
the sharp angles of their brand-new lesson-books. As for the others, they
had lost their jack-knives on their way to school, and consequently had
none. Alas, professor! your golden precept was lost on those youths! Not
one, _not one_, drew his knife to “stab the beast to its heart.”
An awful yell of consternation smote upon the air, as the demoralized
and panic-stricken boys and girls struggled to escape. The young ladies
were too prudent to faint, but they screamed with a voice as shrill and
discordant as their brothers’. It fared worst with the little girls, who
were jostled about and shoved aside without ceremony. Not a spark of
gallantry animated the bosom of those youths; each one strove to save
himself, himself only, and took no thought for the weaker and less active
girls. Rough and lubberly boys, in their struggle to escape, brutally
trod hats and bonnets, books and slates, foot-stools and benches, and
school-mates’ toes, under foot. Such commotion had never been known
in that school. Suddenly a boy stepped heavily on the dog, and poor
Tip howled so lustily that he was heard above all the tumult. This, of
course, added to the panic, and a perfect Babel ensued.
Then, with a roar of horror and agony, a bouncing boy cried out that he
was bitten!
What wonder that poor Tip should bite, when he was bedewed with grimy
tears of honor, yanked this way and that way, stumbled over, jammed
against desks, pelted now and then with a stone ink-bottle, and trampled
nearly to death?
At length the apartment was cleared of all save a few. As it has been
emphatically stated that most of the six were brimming with noble
heroism, perhaps it would be better to say nothing about how they
behaved. Let the reader imagine how _he_ would behave under similar
circumstances.
By the way, it was very rash and foolish in the writer to speak
of their bravery at all; and it has cost him (or her) no little
annoyance--instance chapter the eighth. In fact, on mature deliberation,
the writer recants all that has been said of their bravery.
As Will was tearing out of the room,--it may be remarked incidentally
that it happened he was almost the last to do so,--Tip hobbled past him
to get out. Quick as thought, Will caught up a heavy chair, and brained
him on the spot.
“There,” Will said joyously, “the danger is over now; the dog is dead.”
On giving the dog closer examination, he exclaimed, in surprise: “Why,
it’s Steve’s dog Tip! Poor Tip! Surely he wasn’t mad!”
Meanwhile, where was the great authority on all things in general, rabid
canines in particular? Where was he with his knife?
At the first note of danger, he, being nearest the front-door, had leaped
to his feet and ingloriously shown his heels; but not being so familiar
with the internal arrangement of the building as he thought, he fell
heavily down the four steps of the entry. The fall stunned him, and for a
few minutes he lay insensible. Where was the wonderful knife that was to
disarm the fury of all mad dogs? Alas! it was safe in his pocket!
Before the learned man could grapple with the situation and gather
himself up, the horrified school children were swarming out of the door,
and--over him! Awful magnate that he was, not one among them hesitated to
make him a stepping-stone in this time of fancied danger. In fact, the
next day an immoral boy was heard to say that the professor made a better
door-step than speaker; “for,” as he phrased it, “we slid down over him
at top speed, and got outside all the sooner.”
As for Teacher Meadows, he had perceived that the peroration was at hand;
and when the dog appeared, he was carefully digesting an “extempore”
little speech, in which he intended to express his gratitude to the
learned man for the very lucid and forcible manner in which the absorbing
topic of hydrophobia had been presented to the “students.” But the advent
of the dog diverted the train of his thoughts, and his nice little speech
was never made. After a vain attempt to stem the hubbub and find where
the mad dog was, he followed the example set by the noble speaker, and
hurried out of the school; for, though naturally brave, he saw that it
was useless to remain.
Although the dog was slain, it was some time before the quaking
children could be brought to understand that the danger past, and when
at last their fears were quieted, it was found that a great many were
missing--among them, the boy who had been bitten. What a startling report
they spread in the village about that mad dog! As may be imagined, the
strange orator’s name was so much mixed up in their incoherent and
“artless” story, that most of the villagers laid all the blame of the
affair on him.
Let us return to him, the precept-giving sage, the gifted declaimer. As
soon as he recovered himself, and found an opportunity to do so, he made
good his escape--without even making his adieux to Teacher Meadows! He
reached the depot without molestation; but instead of taking the train
for the next seminary, to rant on his darling themes, he took the first
train for his home, in Boston.
There he lamented the degeneracy of American youth, and trembled for
the integrity of the Union if those boys should ever usurp the right of
running the machinery of government.
Now, our wondrous-wise philosopher firmly believed the heart to be the
seat of courage. Being aware that he had played the poltroon on the
occasion of the struggle with the “mad dog,” he became alarmed about the
state of that organ, and consulted one of the most eminent physicians of
Boston, who gravely informed him that the left ventricle was affected.
Hence you perceive, gentle reader, that the professor must not be
censured for deserting his post as he did; for had his heart been in its
normal condition, he would have proved a far more formidable antagonist
to Tip than the pugnacious grimalkin.
But Teacher Meadows probably suffered most acutely, and he should be
pitied most. Let us return to him. After mustering the remaining school
children, he demanded threateningly. “Can any of you throw any light on
this mysterious affair?”
There was silence--unbroken, except occasionally, by an hysterical “Ah!”
or “Oh!” from some tender and cream-faced child, who still quaked with
fear.
Soon Will spoke. “The dog is dead, Mr. Meadows,” he said. “I killed him,”
with boyish pride, “and I don’t believe he was mad at all; for he was
Stephen Goodfellow’s dog.”
“Oh, the dog is dead? Well, let me see it; where is it?” Mr. Meadows said
eagerly.
Will led the way to the place where Tip lay dead, and good Mr. Meadows
vainly tried to determine whether the dog had been mad or not. Poor man!
he was better versed in Latin verbs than in “lycanthropy.”
“Can any one explain this?” he again demanded. “I never before saw a dog
in so pitiable and unnatural a condition, but as to his being mad--” and
he stopped short, nodding his head in great perplexity.
“I guess I saw him first,” piped up the chubby hobbledehoy who had been
the first to cry out in terror on the dog’s arrival. “I saw him bolt in
through the winder.”
“You did not!” exclaimed another. “He came in through the door.”
“I know it; I only said I saw him bolt in through the winder,”
screamed the first speaker, who was blissfully ignorant of syntactical
constructions.
“Well?”--
“Well?” mockingly. “Don’t you wish you’d seen him bolt in, too?”
“Oh, you!” furiously.
“Stop that noise!” cried the teacher, authoritatively. “You must say,
‘burst in.’” Then, swelling with pettishness, he said vehemently, “I
demand an explanation! Some one must know how and where this originated.”
“I can explain it--mostly,” said Jim (our Jim), stepping forward.
Poor Jim! It had fared hardly with him; for, besides having his weak mind
nearly thrown off its balance, he had been clawed and pommelled cruelly
in his struggles to escape, and was now suffering with an agonizing
attack of his peculiar disease--“the chills.”
“_You_ can explain it?” said Teacher Meadows. “Then, wherefore have you
withheld your communication so long?”
He, at least, had profited by the professor’s discourse; he had caught
that long-winded gentleman’s scholastic phraseology.
“I--I--was afraid to speak; I--I ain’t well;” Jim stammered.
“Pray begin your version of it,” said Mr. Meadows, with a weary look,
that told of an aching head and a sore heart.
“Yes, Mr. Meadows,” Jim said hastily. “While Mr. Rhadamanthus was
speaking, I saw Steve slip out of school and go to the far end of the
grounds, where his dog was sleeping; and then they both got up and they
went outside of the gates; but the fence hid them from me, and so I can’t
tell you what they did outside of the gates.”
Here the narrator paused to take breath, and Teacher Meadows said,
sharply, “Yes, very good; but why didn’t you pay attention to the
speaker? Instead of idly gaping out of the window at a boy and his dog,
why didn’t you listen to that spirited dissertation on hydrophobia, and
assiduously take notes of the learned remarks? So distinguished a speaker
may never visit our town again; and--”
“Yes, sir,” interrupted Jim, “but if I hadn’t looked out of the window, I
shouldn’t have known how it all happened.”
Teacher Meadows was nonplussed. With a zigzag wave of the hand, he simply
said, “Resume; I will not argue the point.”
Jim resumed. “I was sitting by the window, and I watched until they came
back to the gates. They were too far away for me to see what they had
been doing; but I watched, and pretty soon I seen Tip chasing a whopping
big old striped used-up cat like--like--like--”
“Like _what_?” angrily asked the teacher.
Jim started, hesitated, and said, desperately, “I don’t know, I’m sure.”
“Go on!” said the wearied listener, with a sinister frown.
“Yes, sir. Well, he caught the cat, and they had an awful fight! I expect
Tip got used up in the fight, Mr. Meadows. Then the cat got away--then
Tip chased after it towards the school--and then the next thing I knew,
Tip was right in the school! That’s all I know about it, sir.”
“A most succinct relation, James,” commented Mr. Meadows, with a reckless
disregard for the rules of grammar as regulated by logic in his octavo
grammar. “But when you knew all about it, why didn’t you warn us in time?
Then this misfortune would not have happened.”
“I--I was frightened myself, sir,” Jim acknowledged.
“Where was Stephen? You left him at the gate,” said the teacher.
“No, sir; I wasn’t with him; I didn’t do anything to him;” Jim said
innocently.
“I guess he ran off after the fight,” ventured a boy.
“Here comes Steve now,” a scholar announced.
And a minute later the boy under discussion hove in sight, but so changed
in appearance that he seemed another boy. Light-hearted and light-headed
Steve was now a haggard, woebegone wretch, who looked as if his
conscience had goaded him over the verge of frenzy. From a distance he
had heard and seen the uproar at the school; and, far from felicitating
himself on the “success” of his trick, he had undergone torments. In
fact, the thought had been forced home to him that there is a higher
purpose in life than that of playing coarse practical jokes, and that he
had frightened the children more than even the orator, Mr. Rhadamanthus.
Yet the boy had at least one good quality; he was always ready to
shoulder the blame of his misdoings, and he never tried to take refuge by
telling a lie or by distorting the truth.
“Stephen Goodfellow,” began Mr. Meadows, severely, “let me hear you in
your defence. According to all accounts, _you alone_ are the guilty one;
so give me your version of this scandalous affair.”
“Yes, sir; I did it all;” Steve said, meekly. “It was my dog Tip; but he
wasn’t no madder than I was.”
“Then he must have been remarkably sane!” commented the teacher.