NAPOLEON AND THE WASP
He tore open the telegram, exclaimed “Thank God,” clapped his hat on,
slammed the door in my face, and was gone--all inside a minute.
What had happened, that he had forgotten me? I screamed with rage and
disappointment, and scratched at the door, a thing I rarely do, for
nothing makes human beings so annoyed as to have their doors marked by
dogs.
The cook and the waitress came running from the kitchen. They were very
good friends of mine, for I took care to treat them with the respect
and consideration that every well-bred dog should show to servants. I
always wiped my feet on muddy days, and I never went into the kitchen
without an invitation.
“Bless the beast--what’s up with him?” exclaimed cook.
“Something, you may be sure,” said the waitress. “He’s got sense, that
dog has. I guess the old man has gone and left him.”
I pulled cook’s cotton dress with my teeth. I led her to the telegram,
and nosed it over to her. Alas! I could not read it. That bit of paper
had driven master from his home.
Cook caught it up, and then gave a screech. “She’s gone and done
it--doesn’t that jostle you!”
What had who done--mistress I supposed--why didn’t she tell me, and I
whined and howled; but they paid no attention to me till Louis came
in for his orders, as he usually did at this time in the morning,
not sauntering, but hurrying and breathing heavily as if he too were
excited.
There was a queer smirk on his face, and he opened his mouth to speak,
but he had no chance to say anything for the two women just yelled at
him, “We’ve got a baby--we’re just like other folks--read that--ain’t
it the superfine!”
Now I thought I would go crazy. I barked, and jumped, and screamed, and
no one rebuked me.
Cook sat down in mistress’s chair and fanned herself with her apron,
Annie the waitress took master’s chair and drummed her fingers on the
table, and Louis sat on the fender-stool with his cap on and whistled.
“Let’s have our coffee in here,” said cook, so they had a lovely time
by the fire, and talked about the coming of the baby, and how it would
turn the family topsy-turvy.
“The old man wasn’t in last night, was he?” remarked Louis.
“No,” said cook, “he wasn’t--something new for him.”
“That kid elevator boy gave me some mouth about it,” said Louis
sheepishly.
“What did he say?” asked Annie.
“Grinned like a fool, and asked me where my old man got that dust on
his coat and hat.”
I whined eagerly. Oh, if I could only speak, and tell them it was
cathedral dust. Rich people don’t know what sharp-eyed critics they
have in their dogs, and cats and servants.
“I hope you gave him a smack,” said Annie.
“Bet yer life, didn’t I,” said Louis. “Says I, ‘Young feller, if my
old man was out all night, he in no mischief were--he ain’t that
colour--see!’ and I digged him under the ribs.”
Cook and Annie shrieked with laughter, and said they’d have their dig
at the elevator boy too, then finally they all went to their work.
Cook invited me politely to sit in the kitchen, but after my breakfast
I ran to master’s room and sat on the window seat looking up and down
the Drive. I waited for him till late in the afternoon. Then I knew he
would be better pleased to have me taking the air, so I ran to the hall
door, and barked till Annie opened it. The elevator boy took me down
below, and the door-man let me out on the sidewalk.
It was a pleasant day with a brisk wind sweeping in off the Hudson.
Many nurses and children were out, and many dogs. I knew all the
canines in this neighbourhood by sight now, and had a speaking
acquaintance with all those worth knowing. I ran into one of the little
parks, and there saw a group of dogs without leashes who were standing
talking together, and gazing at a Dachshund who was conceitedly staring
in what he thought was the direction of Germany, but what was really
Hoboken.
“Good afternoon, boys,” I said, “what’s the news?”
“We’re just deciding which of us shall have the pleasure of licking
that hyphenated-American dog,” said a handsome, black French bulldog.
“For days he’s been pushing that griffon Bruxelles about, and some of
us think it’s time for us to stand up for the Belgian dog. To-day, the
news of the war has been very good for the Germans, and the Dachshund
has been positively unbearable.”
“I’d like to have the honour of settling him,” said an Irish wolfhound,
“but the odds wouldn’t be even.”
A Scotch terrier bristled up, “I maunna, canna, winna yield the
privilege to none. I hae it.”
“It’s mine,” said a Welsh terrier angrily.
I burst out laughing. “Fight him if you like. You’ll fight me after.”
They stared at me, and the Dachshund threw me a grateful glance.
“This is a free country for dogs as well as men,” I said. “Let him
talk. Don’t listen, if you don’t like what he says.”
“Are you a pro-German?” enquired an English bulldog furiously.
“If you are, I’ll chew you up,” an Irish terrier seconded him.
In reality, I am a dog that is for the Allies, but I wouldn’t give them
the satisfaction of telling them.
“Gentlemen dogs,” I said, “I’m not talking about who I’m for, or who
I’m against----”
“You should say ‘whom,’” interjected an English setter who was a great
purist as regards dog language.
“Thank you,” I said bowing to him, “I’m for free speech. Say what you
like, as long as you’re not insulting.”
“He was insulting,” said the whole group of dogs. “He said that
Riverside Drive would soon be German.”
“That’s not insulting,” I replied, “why, that’s flattering. Think what
a nice place it must be, if the Germans want it.”
Every dog showed his teeth--I don’t know what the upshot would have
been, if their various owners had not called them and put their muzzles
on. While we had been gossiping, the ladies had been talking together.
They were very nice ladies, and law-abiding in general, but they did so
hate the muzzle law, and were so sorry to see their poor dogs pawing
their noses in misery, that they had the habit of carrying the muzzles
in their hands, and slipping them on the dogs when they saw a policeman
coming. It certainly was absurd to see baby spaniels, and toy dogs of
all kinds with muzzles on their tiny noses. They couldn’t have bitten
hard if they had tried.
As the dogs who had been growling about the Dachshund left, they threw
furious backward glances at the conceited little scamp who ran up to
me, and licked gratefully a little piece of mud off my back.
“_Danke schön_,” he murmured.
“Can’t you control yourself a bit?” I asked, “and not be so
indiscreet? There wasn’t a German dog in that crowd. You’d have had a
bite or two, if I hadn’t come along.”
“It was for the Fatherland,” he exclaimed, “and the sacred domestic
hearth prized by dogs as well as men.”
“You say that like a little parrot,” I remarked, “and I don’t believe
you bullied that griffon on your own responsibility. You’ve always been
a good dog up to within a week. Who’s been coaching you?”
The little dog instead of answering, looked mad, and nipped me quite
quickly on the hind leg.
“Oh! you saucy hyphen,” I said--his name was Grosvater-Leinchen, and
I rolled him over and over a few times in the dust, like a little
four-legged worm.
He got up, looking very dusty, and shook himself.
“Who’s been debauching you?” I said fiercely. “Come on now--I can bite
as well as any dog,” and I showed him two rows of strong teeth.
“If I make new friends, it’s no business of yours,” he said sulkily.
“Oho!” I said. “I know now. It’s that new German police dog that has
come to the Drive. So he told you the patter about the domestic hearth.
Now I’ll tell you something more. He’s a stranger, he doesn’t fit in
here. You’re a New Yorker, and subject to the law of the Drive, which
is that a dog must function.”
“I don’t know what that is,” he said irritably.
“Why, you’ve got to fit in here, and play the game. You must respect
the rights of other dogs, and not impose your little Dachshund will on
us. Did you ever hear of liberty, equality, fraternity?”
“No,” he said in an ugly little voice, that told me the spell of the
police dog was still upon him.
“Well,” I said, “for you, that means that if the griffon gets here
first, and wants the warmest patch of sunlight, you’ve got to let him
have it. You’ve no business to drive him out.”
“But I’m a bigger dog,” he said in surprise, “and I’m German. He’s only
a Belgian.”
“Oho! that’s it, is it?” I replied. “You think German dogs lead the
universe.”
“Of course they do.”
“Well then, if they do, they ought to be perfect.”
“They are perfect,” he said in astonishment. “Didn’t you know that?”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t. I believed American dogs, and English dogs,
and even coloured dogs, are just as good as German dogs, if they behave
themselves.”
“You’re a socialist,” he said, “a dangerous dog.”
I stared at his ridiculous, little, short-legged swagger, as he swung
up and down before me.
“Now I’m going to tell you something,” I said, “as force alone appeals
to you. That little griffon belongs, as you probably know, to Mrs.
Warrington whose sister married an Englishman--Lord Alstone. Now I
happen to know that Lady Alstone is to arrive here to-morrow on a visit
to her sister, and with her ladyship comes her English mastiff. You’re
probably going to get the greatest licking a dog ever got, for the
griffon and the mastiff are always very chummy, and he will be sure to
tell of the treatment he has been receiving from you. A family dog will
fight you far harder than outsiders like the Drive dogs.”
The Dachshund looked alarmed.
“I’m sorry for you,” I said, “_auf wiedersehen_.”
“I say,” he exclaimed hopping after me, “I don’t want to be torn to
pieces.”
“How can you be,” I retorted, “you’re perfect--being a super-dog,
you’ll find a way out.”
“If that mastiff hurts me, the police dog will kill him,” he said
angrily.
“Ah! perhaps,” I observed. “Of course the police dog is a good size,
but an English mastiff----”
The Dachshund looked still more thoughtful. “I believe I’ll let the
griffon have the sunny corner in future,” he said. “After all, I’m not
living in Germany. I’ll tell the police dog I’ve got to be American, as
long as I’m here. If I go back to Germany, I can be German.”
“All right,” I said heartily. “That’s a wise dog. Now why don’t you run
right on to the griffon’s house, and tell him that? Get your story in
before the mastiff arrives.”
Off hopped Mr. Dachshund across the Drive, keeping a bright look-out
for policemen, and I felt that in future he would be friendly with the
griffon.
I chuckled to myself, as I ran on to the Bonstones, for that was my
objective point. Evil communications corrupt good manners even in dogs.
The air was delicious. I had no muzzle on, so I went slowly, and with a
wary eye for those nice men the police, who would be our best friends
if it weren’t for the health commissioner. It is a great fashion with
some persons to run down policemen. I always like them and firemen, and
have no admiration whatever for soldiers. I hate to see things torn
and mangled. Policemen and firemen try to keep things together, and I
believe if every policeman in every big city had a good police dog,
there would be less killing and wounding of human beings.
The New York policemen are sharp, so I had to do a good deal of dodging
behind pillars and in shrubbery, and twice I had to run away down to
the river bank to elude them. It was close on dinner time, when I
reached the Bonstone mansion.
I ran round to the back to get in. Fortunately the chauffeur, who was
a friend of Louis, knew me, and when I whined, he left the car he was
cleaning in the garage, and opening a side door of the house, said,
“Run in, purp--I’ll bet you’ve come to call on the bride.”
I had, and I ran through back halls and passages right up to her
bed-room. She was dressing, not for her own dinner only, but for a
fancy dress ball to be held in the house of a friend afterward. She
looked like the most beautiful picture I ever saw. Most women don’t
look like pictures, but she nearly always does. She was putting on
the costume Sir Walter had told me about--the wasp creation, with the
gauzy wings and fluffy flounces. The skirt was rather short, and showed
pretty striped stockings--yellow and black, Sir Walter said they were.
Then there were tiny little satin shoes--oh! she certainly was very
gauzy, and waspy and pretty.
Miss Stanna, or perhaps I should now say Mrs. Bonstone, had a French
maid dressing her--a well-trained one, for her mistress had scarcely to
open her lips to give directions.
Once she murmured, “_Trop serrée_;” and another time she said, “_Les
gants jaunes_.”
Her flowers were lovely--orchids that nodded like big insects, and
looked the shade of her gown.
When she glided from the room, the maid, who was a merry-looking
creature herself, stared after her, and said with quite an English
accent, “She knows how to get herself up--the monkey.”
Her voice was kind when she said it. We dogs don’t take much stock in
words; it’s the tone that counts with us.
I don’t believe Mrs. Bonstone would ever be unkind to any one, unless
they deserved a good scolding, in which case I think she could give it.
Well, I travelled on behind the wasp gown down to the drawing-room.
Mrs. Bonstone had greeted me politely, when I went in, but very
dreamily. Her alert mind was not at present on dogs.
Sir Walter stood under the statue of a Grecian boy in the lower hall,
and as usual was the essence of courtesy. He came forward to greet me,
bowing his noble head politely, and never saying a word about my not
having called sooner, escorted me into the fine, big room, which had
been done over with furnishings in which a lot of gold glittered.
“Must have cost thousands and thousands,” I observed.
Sir Walter, who did not think it good manners to mention prices of
things, and yet who felt it incumbent on him to say something, murmured
merely, “The new man is princely in his generosity.”
“Where’s Gringo?” I inquired anxiously.
“Never leaves his master--look behind Mr. Bonstone’s patent leather
shoes.”
Sure enough, there was old Gringo, resplendent in a new collar which
seemed to worry his neck, and panting happily beside a big fire.
He looked like a big, ugly, brindled splotch on the white velvet
hearth rug, but attractive, so very attractive, and just brimful of
originality. He wasn’t going to turn into a conventional dog, just
because he had come to live on Riverside Drive.
He pricked his rose ears when he saw me, and scuffed over to nose, or
rather to lip me a welcome, for his old nose had such a lay-back that
it wasn’t the use to him that mine was, for example. Mr. Bonstone and
his wife didn’t pay any attention to us. They were staring at each
other, as if they were at some kind of new and agreeable entertainment.
However, the man’s keen glance soon fell on us.
“Dog-show?” he asked agreeably. “I heard there was one going on.”
Mrs. Bonstone laughed in a healthy, happy way, as if she hadn’t a
care in the world. Something about us--we three dogs standing in the
middle of the room, politely greeting each other, seemed to excite
her risibles, till she almost lost control of herself. Or was there
something back of us in her mind? I guessed the latter by the way she
looked at her husband when she caught his arm and said, “Norman, let’s
go in to dinner.”
The butler, who stood in the doorway, was just announcing this, the
most agreeable time of the day. He was a new man, and gave me a
frightful stare. I placed him as a dog-hater.
Mr. Bonstone and his wife took their dinner in almost profound silence.
Whether it was the presence of the servants in the room or not, I don’t
know, but they seemed to be quite happy without talking.
After dinner they went, not back to the drawing-room, but to the
smoking-room, which was furnished in quiet, dull colours. There were
some big, leather-covered chairs by the fire, and Mr. Bonstone sat down
in one, and resting his head on the back of it, stared at the ceiling,
while his wife wandered about the room.
Neither Mr. Bonstone nor my master smoked, and for that I was very
thankful, for though I can stand the smell of tobacco I, like most
normal dogs, do not care for the smell of anything burning. I love
strong odours, but not when they are on fire.
We dogs were ordered to go to the kitchen to get some dinner, and
when we came back, the Bonstones were talking, but not about anything
interesting to me, so I had a little conversation with Gringo.
We were going under the table which was covered with books and
magazines. Underneath was a fine Turkish rug which made the floor very
comfy, and I was just going to lie down on it, when Mrs. Bonstone said
politely, “Lie by the fire, Boy, you are an honoured guest.”
I had begged Sir Walter to leave us for a while. He was thoroughly
exhausted, having had a twenty-mile tramp with Mr. Bonstone that
afternoon, and though he urged that his duties as host demanded that
he stay till my call was over, I freed him from all obligations of a
social nature, and told him to run off for forty winks, and come back
refreshed.
Gringo and I were not sorry to be alone. “If I could tell you, old
fellow,” I whispered in his soft, well set-up ear, “how sorry I’ve been
not to take you about a bit and introduce you, but my master needed me,
and I was consoled by hearing that Walter Scott was doing the handsome
thing by you.”
“That dog’s right on the level,” said Gringo heartily. “He’s not used
to my sort. In that castle in Scotland, where he was born, there was
a set of dog-nobs. He never ran with common dogs till I came, but as
he said himself, ‘My dear mistress sets the pace in this house--if she
accepts you, it is my duty to accept you, too.’”
“He has introduced you properly to our set, hasn’t he?” I asked eagerly.
“He has done it fine. I know the whole bunch from those babies in arms,
the toy spaniels, up to the biggest mastiff that stalks the Drive.”
“And what do you think of them?”
“I hate most of them,” said Gringo stoutly, “can’t make ’em out. On the
Bowery, we’re honest--if a dog likes you, you’re made aware of it. If
he hates you, he lies low for you.”
“Then you think we’re deceitful up here,” I said with a troubled air.
“Deceitful ain’t the name for it. They smile and scrape, and give a
polite look in the eye, but I’m dead sure they’re grinning behind my
back. I’ll never like these up-town dogs. Me for the simple life and
honesty.”
I said nothing. What he affirmed was partly true, but he was
over-suspicious. The trouble was, his manners weren’t right, and his
sub-conscious self told him he was not in his proper _milieu_.
“By the way,” he said, “I note you’re as well-known as the cops. How
did you fix that with so many dogs about? You’ve not been here long.”
“I don’t know,” I said with a smile. “It’s easy for me to make friends.
I don’t usually stay long in a place, and it’s get acquainted in a
hurry, or not at all--a sort of ‘dogs-that-pass-in-the-night’ fashion.”
“Some day I want to swap experiences with you,” he said.
“With pleasure,” I replied.
“You like your present crib, don’t you?” he inquired.
“Rather, but I’m worried about my master just now.”
Gringo wasn’t listening to me. “Hush up, old man, for a bit,” he said
anxiously. “I believe that girl is wasping master again.”
I looked over my shoulder. Mrs. Bonstone had wiggled on to the arm of
the huge chair her husband was sitting in.
“Odd, isn’t it, Norman,” she was saying, “that you so love this
conventional life after all your Bohemianism.”
Mr. Norman gave her a queer look from his expressive eyes, and said
nothing.
“I should think you would hate evening dress and tight shoes and
dinners and dances, after the prairies and South America and--the
Bowery.”
“Master’s in a cold perspiration; he don’t like those things--he hates
’em as much as I do,” said Gringo indignantly, “but he thinks she likes
’em, so he keeps his mouth shut.”
In listening to him, I lost Mr. Bonstone’s reply, and Gringo went on
wrathfully, “Ain’t she the limit! She sits there night after night and
sticks pins in my poor boss, and he thinks she’s cute and clever.”
“I guess you don’t understand her any more than you do the Riverside
dogs,” I said. “Looks to me as if she liked him.”
“Then,” replied Gringo, “why don’t she tell him so, instead of wasping
his life out?”
“Gringo,” I said, “some ladies often wrap truth all round with
affectations, till it’s like a little lost soul in the centre of a big
ball.”
“Then give me just plain women,” said the old dog sulkily.
“Norman,” Mrs. Bonstone was saying, “how would you like to give a ball.
We’ve got to return some of the hospitality that’s been showered on
us.”
“Poor kid master,” groaned Gringo, “he goes to those fool shows, and
watches her dancing, and buttons and unbuttons his gloves, and chokes
his yawns, and thinks he’s having a good time.”
Mr. Bonstone was speaking. “Stanna--you may give a ball, or a funeral,
or anything you choose. I’ll foot the bill.”
She struck her gaudy heels together, and said nothing for a long time.
Her maid came in, laid a wonderful evening cloak on the back of a
chair, and withdrew.
The sight of it seemed to irritate Mrs. Bonstone, for she frowned at
it, and after a time, stretched out her hand, pulled the lovely cloak
from the back of the chair near her, threw it over Gringo and me, and
disdainfully tucked it round us with her foot.
Gringo was nearly dead with the heat of the fire, and as he wriggled
out of the cloak, he muttered wrathfully, “Why don’t the boss give her
a hauling over the coals? Down on the Bowery, she’d get it, and be
the better for it. The way men fetch and carry for the ladies in the
‘aileet of the bowe mond,’ makes me sick!”
I snickered at his French, then turned my attention to Mr. Bonstone who
was saying quietly, “You’ve changed your mind about going to that fancy
dress affair to-night, haven’t you?”
“I believe I have,” she said dreamily, and she slipped from the arm of
his chair to another big one, and sinking back in it, fixed her eyes on
the fire.
“Haven’t you a farm somewhere near here?” she asked presently.
An eager look came into Mr. Bonstone’s eyes. “Yes,” he said shortly. “I
have.”
“Let’s pretend we’re the farmer and his wife,” she said coaxingly.
“I’ve just been out to the stable, and put the hens to bed.”
Mr. Bonstone smiled. “Suppose we say hen-house,” he remarked. “Hens, as
a rule, don’t sleep in the stable.”
“Well--the hen-house,” she said. “You’ve just been milking the cows.”
“I can milk,” said Mr. Bonstone, “but I don’t count on ever doing it
myself.”
“Why not?” asked Mrs. Bonstone.
“Wouldn’t pay--I’d better do the head-work, and have a man attend to
the cows.”
Mrs. Bonstone pressed her pretty lips together, and went on, “The
horses, the cows and the hens are all asleep. What would the farmer and
his wife do to amuse themselves for the evening?”
“I know what the farmer would do,” said Mr. Bonstone, “he’d tot up his
accounts, read the paper, and go to bed. He’d be dead tired.”
“And what would I do?” she asked.
“You’d do likewise, if you were a real farmer’s wife,” said Mr.
Bonstone. “Your feet would be so sore, you couldn’t stand on them.”
“How lovely!” she exclaimed, “to be really tired.”
“What set you out to talk about this?” he inquired curiously. “You’d
never live on a farm.”
“Yes, I would,” she replied earnestly, “I’m tired of balls, I’m tired
of the opera, I’m tired of dances, I’m tired of dinners, I’m tired of
fine dresses--I’m tired of everything I’ve had. I want something new.”
“If you want novelty,” he said breathlessly, “I’ve got that farm--I
never thought you’d go on it.”
“I want to go there,” she said. “I want to leave here. I want chickens
and cows and more dogs.”
“You’d miss this life,” he said curtly.
“No, no, I would not. I long for the country--the real country--let
Grandmother have this house.”
“Well, ain’t she the ice-chest,” observed Gringo severely.
Mr. Bonstone’s eyes were going round the room. I felt what he was
thinking of. Worldly-wise old Mrs. Resterton would be enchanted to
preside over this mansion.
“If she comes here,” he said at last, “you must come, too, when you
like. You are a city girl, the country will bore you after a time.”
She made an impatient gesture. “You don’t understand. I like what you
like. You despise bricks and mortar, I despise them.”
“Suppose I haven’t money enough to run two houses,” he said.
“I don’t care--I can work,” and she opened out her two tiny hands.
Mr. Bonstone said nothing, and looked down at Gringo.
“Believe me, he’s happy,” muttered the old dog in my ear. “I see it in
his eyes. He thinks the Wasp is beginning to like him.”
“I thought you liked money,” said Mr. Bonstone after a long time.
“I love it,” said the Wasp promptly, “heaps of it, but I like you
better.”
“He’ll have to do something now,” said Gringo anxiously. “He’s very
chilly in his ways.”
A red-hot spark just then flew out of the fire on my coat, and I was
very much occupied with my little burn for a few seconds. When I again
turned my attention to the room, Gringo was on his feet ejaculating
excitedly, “Mister’s left his chair--he’s walking, fast round the
room--he’s powerfully pleased--come on, let’s join the procession,” and
he gambolled to the other side of the table.
I love to see human beings happy, and I trotted after Gringo. Mrs.
Bonstone’s face shone like a fairy’s, and she was softly beating her
hands on the arms of her chair.
“Never again tell me your master has cold eyes,” I said to Walter
Scott, who had just come to the room, and stood in the doorway gazing
in an amazed and disapproving manner at the cloak on the floor, his
master’s excited face, and Mrs. Bonstone’s resplendent eyes.
“My dear lady is not going to the ball,” faltered Sir Walter--“she’s
lost her repose of manner, and she’s singing, ‘Tum Tum,’ and beating
her hands on the chair--what would Grandmother say, if she were here?”
“Fortunately, Grandmother is in Palm Beach,” I muttered.
Gringo was in high feather. As he trailed round the room after his
master, and I trailed after him, he said gleefully, “Thank goodness,
young missie has quit her fooling. She’s let mister know she wants to
do whatever he wants to do. Now he won’t be so bothered. He can get to
work to carry out his schemes for improving country life without having
to gloom round after her all the time.”
A thought came flashing into my mind. “Oh! if my poor master only had
his sick wife home again--I believe he would look just as blissful as
Mr. Bonstone does.”