THE TIGER BECOMES A LAMB.
Gippie was tired out, and in an execrable temper. He had had to trot
home all the way from the Tracys, for his mistress was carrying a
long bundle under one arm, and a good-sized basket on the other. And
now that she was in sight of the house, she was fairly running, and
he could scarcely keep up with her.
Her head was turned far round, she was looking over her shoulder in
the direction away from the front of the house, and yet she went
right to the spot where the unfortunate Poacher had fallen.
Gippie knew very well what all her emotion was about. Like some deaf
and partly blind human beings, he was more aware of happenings than
people supposed. Poacher was dead, and he was not sorry for it,
for he had been desperately jealous of him, and limping up to his
mistress he impatiently whined to claim recognition.
"Oh, Gippie, what shall I do?" she moaned. "What shall I do? He was
so good and gentle. I can't go in--I can't go in."
She was on her knees on the snow. Her hands were wandering over the
depression where Poacher had lain. Her face was so pale and unhappy,
that even Gippie's selfish heart was touched, and standing on his
hind legs to reach her shoulder, he tenderly licked her right ear
inside and out, until she brushed him aside with a half laugh, half
sob, and a murmured, "You tickle my ear, Gippie."
She got up and moved slowly toward the back door, while the dog
trotted along nimbly on his three legs after her. Why, what a
vault! and Gippie shivered and turned his short-sighted eyes in the
direction of the kitchen stove. It was black and cold, and the old
man, sitting in the draughtiest corner of the room, right by the
cellar door, was a dull, mottled purple. He did not speak when the
door opened. He was morose and silent, and his whole appearance was
that of a man in extreme distress.
Gippie was an excellent hater, and it did him good to see the old man
suffer. However, he did not care to suffer with him, and squealing
dismally, he planted himself near the delinquent stove.
'Tilda Jane's listlessness and painful depression were gone. With a
quick exclamation, she had dropped her basket and bundle, and had
sprung to the kindling box.
There was nothing in it. She rushed to the wood-shed, came back with
a handful of sticks and paper, and by dint of extra quick movements
had, in an astonishingly short space of time, a good fire roaring up
the chimney.
Then she turned to the old man, who was still sitting in stony
silence. "I'm 'fraid you're most froze, sir. Can't you come nigher
the fire?"
Dillson's eyelids were swollen with the cold, but there was still
room for a disagreeable twinkle to glimmer through. He would say
nothing, however, and 'Tilda Jane, approaching the long, peculiar
looking bundle, opened it, took out a pair of crutches, and handed
them to him with a humble, supplicating air.
Gippie crawled farther under the stove, and, lowering his head,
awaited developments.
But there was no danger of a blow from the old man. His hands were
so benumbed that he could not hold the crutches. They slipped to the
floor with a crash, and, opening his purple lips, he ejaculated the
word, "Tea!"
"Ain't you had nothin' sence I left?" inquired 'Tilda Jane, sharply.
Dillson shook his head.
"You ain't been sittin' there all night?"
He nodded his head this time.
'Tilda Jane's face took on an expression of dismay, and she flew
around the kitchen.
The warm atmosphere was now enwrapping the old man in a most
agreeable manner, and when 'Tilda Jane handed him the big cup, he
grunted something between an expression of thanks and a desire that
she should hold it to his lips.
While he greedily drank the hot liquid, 'Tilda Jane, with a queer
choking in her throat, addressed broken remarks to him. "I didn't
know, sir--I was hopin' some one would come in--I was mos' crazy
'bout the dog--I forgot all 'bout you till jus' now."
"More," he said, shortly, when 'Tilda Jane put the cup down.
She refilled it, then, as his hands began to get supple and he could
manipulate it himself, she uncovered the basket Mrs. Tracy had given
her.
"I didn't look in before," she exclaimed. "Oh, the beauty eggs!" and
she carefully unrolled a napkin, "an' the white rolls, an' Washington
cake, an' a meat pie, an' a tart--I say, grampa, we'll have a good
dinner!"
The old man looked strangely at her, but she went on unheedingly:
"They're jus' boss people. I'm glad I went an' talked to 'em--I'm
sorry I was so ugly to you, grampa, an' if you don't want me, I guess
I'd better go 'way."
She spoke quite humbly and naturally, and, as she did so, she raised
her head and glanced in Dillson's direction.
He made no response, and she went on: "I've been a very bad little
girl, but I'm goin' to be better, an' you jus' tell me what you want
me to do, grampa, an' I'll do it, an' if you don't want to talk, you
jus' write it. I know you're a big man, an' mebbe you don't want to
talk to a little girl like me, but I'll not lay it up agin you. You
jus' do what you want, an' I'm not tryin' to come round you, 'cause I
'spect you'll send me off quicker'n a flash so soon as you get some
one else."
Her lips were trembling, and her face was bright and expectant, but
the old man gave her no satisfaction.
"Hand me some of that pie," he said, unexpectedly.
"Can you wait till I set the table an' make it look real pretty,
grampa?" she said, coaxingly.
Dillson was nearly starved, and, without a word, held out his hand in
a commanding fashion.
"All right, grampa," she said, gently, and she handed him a generous
slice; "anythin' you like. This is your house. It ain't mine."
Dillson ate his pie, watching her meanwhile out of a corner of his
eye.
"Bread and meat," he said when he had finished.
'Tilda Jane supplied this want, and earnestly watched these viands
going the way of the pie.
"More tea," he said, when they were gone.
When he had eaten and drunk to an alarming extent, he pointed to the
crutches. "Where did you get them?"
"I saw 'em in a window, grampa,--a great big druggist's window,--an'
I went in an' said to the man, 'Can you trust me for 'em? I'll pay
you, sure pop, if you'll gimme time. I'm goin' to be a good girl now,
an' never tell no more lies nor steal, nor do anythin' bad,' but he
jus' said ever so grumpy, 'This is a cast down, no credit system
store,' but I wasn't cas' down, an' I said, 'S'pose you was a lame
man, an' a bad little girl burnt up your crutches, how would you
feel? 'Then he looked kind o' solemn, an' said, 'Whose crutches was
burnt up?' An' I said, 'Mr. Hobart Dillson's crutches,' an' he said,
'What girl burnt 'em?' I said, 'A little girl that don't know where
to look.' Then he asked what you said when I burnt your crutches, an'
I said you didn't say much, you jus' cussed. Then he turned his face
round to the bottles, an' when he looked out it was red, an' he was
shakin' all over like as if he's been cryin', an' he jus' pointed to
the crutches an' said, 'Take 'em, an' welcome.'"
Dillson's head dropped on his breast. This girl had evidently gone to
Peter Jerret's store,--Peter Jerret who had owed him a grudge ever
since the day he went in and denounced him before a store full of
customers for overcharging him for prescriptions. Peter had actually
dared to pity him--Hobart Dillson, and so had let the girl have the
crutches, not caring whether he ever got paid or not. Well, he hadn't
thought Peter would ever pity him, and, drawing his crutches toward
him, Dillson cautiously lifted himself, and tried his weight upon
them.
Yes, he could walk, he would go to bed, and think over Peter's
conduct. It affected him, but he must not look soft. "Open my door,"
he said to 'Tilda Jane.
While she flew to obey his command, the old man heard a low whine
near him, and remembered Poacher. The dog had recognised the girl's
voice, and would soon make himself known. He might as well have
the credit of his discovery. If she had come home sulky he would
have allowed her to find the dog for herself, but she was meek and
biddable, and she had also secretly pleased him by addressing him as
"grampa," in tones of such respect and affection. She had improved
decidedly, and he exclaimed, peremptorily, "Here, you!"
'Tilda Jane ran out from the bedroom, where she was turning down the
icy sheets in the bed so that the chill might be taken from them.
"Open this door," ordered the old man.
With a wondering air 'Tilda Jane threw back the cellar door. Then she
gave a joyful scream.
There, standing on the top step, cold and shivering, half famished,
but alive and well, was her beloved Poacher.
She tried to catch him around the neck, but he flew past her into the
kitchen, came back like a shot, and, dashing up her back, licked her
neck, sprang into the air, and again racing round and round the room,
brought on what she herself would call a "combobberation."
The old man was so near, that Poacher, in his wild gyrations to and
fro, swept one of his crutches from him. 'Tilda Jane, even in the
midst of her astonished and ecstatic glee, perceived this, and
stooped down to recover the lost article, but she could not lay her
hand on it, for the excited dog, with his head in the air and his
tongue hanging out, made repeated dashes at her, beside her, behind
her,--he was everywhere that she was. And Gippie was after him, for,
snorting with rage and mortification at the resuscitation of his
rival, he had bounded from under the stove, and, with his maimed
tail wagging excitedly in the air, was biting, snapping, growling
at Poacher's heels, nipping him fiercely, if by chance he paused a
second to rest.
The noise and confusion were overcoming, and the old man, holding
firmly to his remaining crutch, and grasping the back of a chair,
grimly surveyed the scene. Finally 'Tilda Jane secured the crutch,
and, pantingly brushing back her dishevelled hair, she passed it to
him across the dogs' backs.
Poacher had now sunk on the floor at her feet, while Gippie was
exerting his feeble strength in trying to crowd him away from 'Tilda
Jane's stout shoes.
"Forgive us, grampa, dear grampa," she said, beseechingly; "but it's
such a joyful 'casion--such a 'casion. My heart never felt so big in
my life. It's all swolled up. Oh, ain't you sweet to prepare this
s'prise for me. When I come back jus' now I thought my pet was buried
in the cold ground--oh, I jus' love you!" and, climbing over the
quarrelling dogs, she seized the bunch of knuckles nearest her, and
kissed them fervently.
The old man slowly uncurled his fist and looked at it. How many years
was it since any one had kissed him?
He put the crutch under his arm, and turned toward the bedroom.
"Good night, grampa, dear grampa," floated sweetly after him. The
girl was down on the floor with her dogs, her arm was around the
hound's black neck, the three-legged atrocity was pressed to her
side. She was happy, yes, happy--"as happy as a fool," he grumbled to
himself. Nothing to annoy her, nothing to trouble her. Wait till she
got older, and life's worries began to crowd around her, and with an
impatient groan the old man flung himself down on the chair by his
bed.