POOR AMARILLA
Mrs. Waverlee had no relapse, and she went to recuperate in the lovely
hospital where my mistress had been.
Master was questioned very much about her case by his men friends, who
said it was one of the most extraordinary they had ever heard of.
Oh! the petting I got. I had really done nothing, but follow out my dog
instinct, but these human beings seemed to think that there never had
been, and never would be such another dog.
Mrs. Waverlee was a rich woman, and many persons said, “She will be
sure to give the dog a jewelled collar when she gets well.”
Master and I were very uneasy about this, and he said one day, “If she
does, I shall not allow Boy to wear it. Sometimes, jewelled collars
have cost dogs their lives.”
Fortunately Mrs. Waverlee was something beyond the ordinary run of
women. When she came back from the hospital, pale, but strong and
beautiful, she took my head between her two hands.
I never saw such a look in the eyes of a mortal person before. (You
know we dogs sometimes see ghosts.) She was like a woman that had
died, and come to life again. If there had been any nonsense about her,
it was all purged away.
“Boy,” she said in her lovely English voice, “to commemorate your
sagacity, I am going to give a year’s income to aid the various
societies in New York that exist for the purpose of helping lost and
starving animals.”
Oh! how this pleased me. The sufferings of animals affect me so
strongly, that merely to think of them makes me miserable. I try in
vain sometimes to forget the horrible sights I have seen, the dreadful
sounds I have heard.
I wagged my tail, I licked her hands, I prostrated myself before this
beautiful Englishwoman with the other-world look in her eyes. She could
do nothing for me, but make other dogs happy, whose sufferings made me
so unhappy.
I adored her, I worshipped her. There was something in her spirit that
understood my dog spirit better, far better, than any other person in
the world could comprehend me. What was it? I did not know. I merely
understood that I reverenced her more than I reverenced my dear master,
though of course I loved him more.
The Bonstones and my master and mistress were intensely interested
in this lovely woman, for she affected them somewhat as she affected
me. For a long time, after she came from the hospital, she and Egbert
visited the Bonstones, and Gringo told me that every one in the
household looked upon her with a kind of awe.
“She don’t care for things other women do,” said old Gringo with a
mystified air, “and I hear her whispering to herself, ‘What shall I do
with my life?’”
“Then she isn’t going back to England?” I said.
“No,” replied Gringo, “she grows quite cold and white, when any one
asks her that. I think it’s because they’re still fighting over there,
and she hates war.”
One day, he came over to our house on his most excited double shuffle.
“My boss has fixed the English lily,” he said. “Out near his farm in
the country, is a village where the brown baby will have to go to
school bye and bye. He’s offered to build a school-house, if Mrs.
Waverlee will teach in it.”
“And will she?” I asked eagerly.
“She’s tickled to death. Says to train children will be just the ticket
for her.”
Soon after this, Mrs. Waverlee came back to her apartment in our house.
I heard a very indiscreet lady one day ask her if she didn’t dread
going back to the rooms where she had heard the news of her husband’s
death. Mrs. Waverlee gave the lady a strange smile and said, “He isn’t
dead to me. I feel him near me all the time.”
Both Egbert and his mother visited us quite frequently. They both loved
the baby, and sometimes the Bonstones came over with little Cyria, and
we had quite a party.
Little Cyria was a darling, and she was not at all afraid of dogs.
Every fine day her nurse took her, out on the Drive, and she stretched
out her little hand to every dog she met. On windy days, and rainy
days, the nurses all took their perambulators up to Broadway where it
was more sheltered. If you notice the New York babies in the vicinity
of the Drive, you will find that they all look very prosperous, for
they are kept out-of-doors so much.
Mrs. Bonstone fussed over Cyria, and mistress fussed over George
Washington, and the baby-interest drawing the two ladies together so
much, threw the two men together.
Both Mr. Bonstone and my dear master were quiet men, disliking society,
loving business, and enjoying nothing as much as a long walk together
after their day’s work was over.
Mrs. Granton was not strong enough now to go into society, but Mrs.
Bonstone was, and one day I heard her husband talking to her very
seriously, and telling her that as long as she lived in the city, she
ought to keep up a certain amount of social life.
She adored him still, and never hesitated to tell him so, and in the
long run, she usually did as he requested.
“But I won’t go out in the evening,” she said wagging her saucy head at
him.
“All right,” he replied, “but mind you’ve promised not to drop all the
women you know. You’ll get warped and selfish, if you do.”
“What a wise man you are,” she said teasingly. “Do hurry and get your
old farm ready, so I can be a farmer’s wife.”
I was in the Bonstone house nearly every day, and if I was not, Gringo
told me all that went on. He never ran out on the Drive without his
master. He was afraid of the policemen. On the Bowery where everybody
knew him, he had often gone out alone.
I was anxious to know what he thought of the baby Cyria, and the farm,
and one day I asked him to tell me his real feelings.
“Cross-your-heart feelings,” I said. “I know you don’t wear your heart
on your sleeve.”
“Both things I hate,” he said grumpily, “but I’m going to make myself
like ’em.”
“Oh, Gringo,” I said, “how can you hate Cyria.”
“She sticks her fingers in my eyes when no one’s looking,” he said.
“Doesn’t that prove what I say, that children are enormously clever,” I
exclaimed, “but why don’t you get up, and move away?”
“She’s master’s baby, she’s got to be amused.”
“But your master wouldn’t like her to do that.”
“She’ll get over it, when she’s older,” he said patiently. “A dog has
got to have some worries, or life would be too sweet.”
“And you don’t like the idea of the farm?”
“A Bowery dog on a farm!” said Gringo. “Me for the pavements.”
“Were you ever on a farm?” I asked.
“No, and never want to be. I’ve heard tell what they’re like. Nothing
doing from morning till night.”
“Well, I don’t like the country half as well as the city,” I said,
“but I don’t believe I’ve ever been in a really interesting country
place--I’ll tell you a great bit of news.”
“You don’t mean to say you’re going, too,” interrupted Gringo.
“Yes I do,” I said, “master is going to move to the country.”
“Well, I vow,” said the old dog. Then he added, “I thought I smelt that
rat one day when your boss was talking to mine.”
“Yes,” I went on, “your master is looking for a place for mine.”
“I’m mighty glad about having you near by,” said Gringo, but he added
shrewdly, “what does your missis say?”
“She started it,” I exclaimed. “It began this way. The other night she
and master were talking before they went to bed. Said she, ‘Rudolph,
there is much sickness in New York among children.’
“Said he anxiously, ‘Yes, I notice in the papers!’
“‘I’m worried about Baby,’ said she.
“‘So am I,’ said he.
“‘Country life is better for babies,’ said she, ‘but I suppose you
wouldn’t like to go so far from your business.’
“Said he quite quietly, ‘I’ve always loved the country better than the
city, but I thought you couldn’t abide it.’
“‘I used to dislike it,’ she said hanging her head, ‘but we had no baby
then, Rudolph.’”
“And what did he say to that?” asked Gringo.
“He didn’t say anything. He got up and kissed her. They understand
each other pretty well now, and the next day, which was yesterday, he
spoke to your master, and asked him to look for a place near yours. So
you’ll probably have us for neighbours, old boy. Isn’t that great?” and
I gave him a playful nip in his big shoulder.
Gringo was deeply pleased, but he’s like his master, he doesn’t say
much.
“We’re both no longer quite young,” I went on, “and we’ve just got
to make up our minds to like what our owners do. I prophesy that
two clever men like your master and mine can make even country life
interesting.”
“Wait till they deliver the goods,” said the old dog; then he added,
“They’ll be missed in this little old city.”
“But they won’t leave it finally,” I said. “They’re planning to come in
and out.”
I knew what he referred to. Mr. Bonstone and my master had been placing
more and more of their business in the hands of their employees, and
together they went about the city doing good. They had found out that
a lot of harm results in many cases, from rich people putting all of
their charitable work in the care of hirelings.
“Man to man,” master used to say, “I want to know those I’m privileged
to help,” so often he left his office early, and he visited such poor
places, that usually I was not allowed to go with him. I heard him
telling his wife about the terrible suffering he found.
“We’ll have a war,” he used to say often, “unless there’s more contact
between class and class.”
“Don’t despoil yourself of all you have, Rudolph,” mistress would say
anxiously. “There’s Baby to be provided for.”
“I don’t want to leave him a fortune, Clossie,” he said one day. “A
good education is all I wish to do for him.”
“Just a little something to start on,” she said with mother anxiety,
then she went on, “I wish you wouldn’t call me Clossie any more; say
Claudia.”
Master was so pleased, that he went out and bought her a beautiful
ring, to commemorate the occasion of dropping her doll name.
While master was doing a little missionary work among human beings, I
did a little among dogs, and had an adventure in the bargain.
Of all animals in the world, I pity most the performing animals. It is
unspeakably pathetic to me to see those poor four-legged creatures on
a stage, trying to do things they were never meant to do. Why should a
monkey ride a bicycle, or pretend he’s a fireman, when he just hates
it? I’ve seen human beings in a theatre, shrieking with laughter at
the antics of poor animals on the stage, whose eyes were eloquent with
fright.
Once I had as owner a lady who used to take me to the theatre. She
always had a box, and concealed by the flowing laces of her gown I
would watch everything that took place on the stage. Some things I
liked. I think men and women enjoy strutting round, pretending they’re
some one else. But the dogs who appear in vaudeville--it nearly used to
break my heart to see them.
Once I saw roosters--poor, thin, half-starved looking creatures, who
flapped their wings, and crowed, and stretched themselves when they
came on the stage, showing that they had been confined in little cages,
instead of leading a free, open-air life as roosters should.
Well, on the day, or rather the evening when I played missionary, I had
tried in vain to get Gringo to take a stroll with me.
No, he would not, and lay down on a seat arranged for him in a window,
so he could watch the passers-by in the Drive. Summer was coming, and
it was too late for fires, so he could not lie on the hearth-rug.
Master had gone off with Mr. Bonstone somewhere on the East Side. By
the way, I must not forget to say that Mr. Bonstone had given up his
last naughty saloon. They were all good ones now.
He had a great scene with his wife, one evening when I was present. He
still clung to the Bowery drinking-place, and she had found out about
it. She drew the most dreadful picture of Cyria growing up and becoming
a drunkard. Mr. Bonstone didn’t know whether to laugh or get cross with
her, for as Gringo says, “My boss’s heart isn’t on the water-waggon.”
He believes in drink in moderation.
Well, Mrs. Bonstone cried, and at last her husband comforted her, and
said he would never sell another drop of liquor as long as he lived.
“Nor drink it,” she sobbed.
“Well,” he said, “I never have touched it--don’t think it wrong, but
hated the taste.”
He had to promise, of course. A nice woman can do anything with a man,
so now the Bonstones’ house, like ours, was strictly teetotal, and if
any persons fainted, they were revived pretty quick with some hot stuff
that I think was mostly cayenne pepper, by the way it made persons jump.
To come back to the evening of my adventure. I slipped down Broadway,
running close to the stores and keeping the people between me and the
gutter. One seldom meets a policeman near shop windows. It was a lovely
evening, with a warm spring-like feeling in the air, and this nice,
wide, clean Broadway fascinated me more than ever, and everybody looked
so happy and pleasant and well-dressed that I concluded all the people
with troubles had stayed at home. Nearly every person had on new spring
shoes. I really think that nowhere in the world, except in Paris, does
one see such pretty, well-shod feet as in New York. I danced along,
meeting quite a number of dogs, some of whom I spoke to, some of whom
I did not notice. The most of them were led, and of course all had
muzzles on.
I had passed several moving picture places and a few vaudeville houses,
when it suddenly dawned on me that I was getting too far down Broadway,
and had better return home. I cut down a side street, but did not get
far, for just as I had gone a few steps, I smelt a smell, that took me
back to Boston, and several years ago.
I was living then on Beacon Hill, and in the house next to me was a
fine little toy spaniel called Amarilla. She was a little darling,
and had a way of tossing her long ears as if they were curls. One day
she disappeared most mysteriously. No one could ever find out what
had become of the lost Amarilla, though it was suspected she had been
stolen.
[Illustration: IN THE HOUSE NEXT TO ME WAS A FINE LITTLE TOY SPANIEL
CALLED AMARILLA]
Amarilla had a very gentle, clinging sort of an odour. She was
an exquisitely clean little dog, but no matter how clean dogs or
human beings may be, they cannot get rid of what Gringo calls their
odoriferosity. He vows he can track his master if he touches a thing.
Well, I was very much excited when I scented Amarilla. The poor old
lady who owned her was quite childish, and she actually died of grief
over the disappearance of her dog. It would be a great feather in
my cap to track her. Yes, and get caught myself, my native caution
whispered to me.
I surveyed the scene--a vaudeville house on a quiet, narrow street,
enormously high buildings each side--a fine place for a getaway as
Gringo calls a scamper from danger--well, I would risk something for
Amarilla.
The show had been going on for a little time, for it was quite a
bit after eight, and very often the door opened and persons came
out--presumably those who had played their part for the last time and
were going home. So, if I ran in the door, and was cautious, I would
stand a good chance of getting out again.
I seized my opportunity and bolted in when an enormously fat lady in
a light evening cloak came out, and entered a taxi-cab that had been
standing by the curbstone.
Now I was inside the door, and what did I see--a bare, narrow hallway,
and some steps. I crept cautiously up the steps, nosing and smelling
various odours, animals, sawdust, straw, stale food, and waves of heat
from some badly ventilated hall.
Ah! here my suggestion of Amarilla stopped--it was a medium-sized,
untidy kind of basement room, with boxes littered about--travelling
boxes of animals. All were empty. The animals must be on the stage with
their trainer, but if Amarilla was on the stage, why was the room so
strongly reminiscent of her?
Amarilla was not on the stage. I followed my nose to a corner, and
there was the dear little thing, crouching low, her pretty open face,
like a child’s, all distorted by fear.
“Amarilla,” I said softly.
Oh what a jump she gave. “Beauty,” she said, “why, Beauty, is that you?”
Beauty had been my name in Boston, given me by a too fond mistress who
really thought me beautiful.
“Tell me quick,” I said, “what’s the matter with you?”
“I didn’t do my tricks right,” she said, “and the trainer beat me, and
I was too frightened to go on the stage.”
“Then you’re not happy with him.”
“Happy, Beauty--if you knew,” and she began, to moan and cry softly.
There was blood on her pretty coat, and I said sharply, “Brace up, now,
and get out of this. Follow me, I’ll lead you to a good home.”
“I’m afraid,” she said shrinking back. “I never had much spirit, and
all I had has been whipped out of me. I don’t believe I could run a
block.”
“Oh, Amarilla,” I said earnestly, “do come with me. If you don’t, I
shall go home and dream of your misery, and cry in my sleep.”
That touched her a little, for she always was an unselfish little
doggie. “Do come,” I begged.
For a few minutes she held out, and I was in an agony. Any minute, her
master might come and find me there, and I should be trapped, too.
“Oh, Beauty,” she said despairingly, “I’d love to go, but he would run
after me, and then he would nearly kill me.”
“Well, I’ll lie down, and let him catch me, too.”
“No, no,” she said wildly. “You wouldn’t last any time--a dog of your
spirit.”
My threat decided her, and she consented to follow me to the door.
Waiting there in wild anxiety, I thought it would never open. We had to
hide in a corner, and the trainer was actually marshalling the other
dogs down from the stage to their travelling boxes, before a stage hand
came along and, opening the door, stepped out in the street to get a
breath of air.
I thought he would never move away from the open door. Finally a
German band struck up on Broadway, and he moved a few steps toward the
corner.
I gave Amarilla a push, and didn’t we fly out! Most unfortunately, as
we scuttled along toward Riverside Drive, he turned and saw us. He
stepped back quickly into the doorway, and I knew he had gone to give
the alarm.
“Run, Amarilla, run,” I whispered. “They’re after us, and if they catch
us, your trainer will tear me limb from limb.”
Poor little soul, she was too wise to use her breath for speaking. She
just tore on behind me, and nearly panted her little life out. I knew
by her breathing that she hadn’t been used to having much exercise.
I had told her to run behind me, and not to think of automobiles or
anything, but just to keep close to my hind paws.
Of course, I led her right back to Broadway. It would have been foolish
to keep on toward the Drive, when the man had seen us going in that
direction, and would likely get a taxi and follow us. I chose the front
of another moving picture place, and made her creep in behind the
billboards.
“This is horrible,” she gasped, “right in the jaws of danger.”
“Yes,” I said, “just where they’ll never think of looking for you,” and
didn’t we, later on, have the satisfaction of hearing one man say to
another, “Hear about Fifeson’s dogs down at the other house?--they’ve
lost one--saw her running off with another dog--a white fox-terrier,
and can’t find her.”
“How much was she worth to Fifeson?” asked the man addressed.
“He reckons her at five hundred dollars, but I guess he’s romancing.”
Amarilla trembled frightfully, but I reassured her by licking her
wounded head, and after a long time, when the crowd was coming out of
the theatre, I guided her among ladies’ dresses, and creeping out, we
rushed down to the Drive again. Taking advantage of every bit of shadow
we could find, we made short runs for home.
It was about eleven when we arrived in front of our apartment-house,
and Amarilla was nearly dead.
“Bear up a little longer,” I said to her. “Imagine you’re one of your
big ancestors taught to keep within a short distance of a gun--and
listen to a word of advice. The lady of the house is your friend. Pay
no attention to the man.”
“I’m glad,” she said faintly. “I’m terrified of all men, since that one
has beaten me so much with his cruel whip.”
Oh, how angry I felt. That terrible whip is in evidence even on the
stage, for did any one ever see a show of trained animals, without the
presence of the scourge in the hands of the master? He doesn’t dare
to use it in public, but he shakes it, and the poor dog knows what is
coming afterward.
Oh! what a long breath I drew when we passed the floor-to-ceiling
mirrors of our hallway--safe at last, and a sorry looking sight.
Amarilla’s curls were muddy and torn, for I had had her in vacant
lots, among shrubbery, everywhere, to escape the sharp eyes of the
policemen. Then her own troubles made her look terribly.
“What a wreck,” she murmured, then she shut her eyes in pain and
fatigue, as she dropped to the floor of the elevator.
“So you’ve got a friend,” said the elevator boy with a grin. “You’re a
great dog. Never saw your beat.”
When I barked once at the door of our apartment, which was my signal
for getting in, I hoped fervently that my master was at home.
Thank fortune, he was. I ran up to him, threw myself across his feet,
and panted, for even I, strong as I was, felt rather worn out, but not
so much with exertion as with excitement of rescuing my former little
friend.
Amarilla, according to instructions, crept timidly to Mrs. Granton’s
feet. I never saw anything look more humble than that little dog. She
doubled up her little legs so that she seemed to be crawling on her
stomach. Her air was humility, sad appeal, and restrained suffering. It
was inimitable.