Wednesday, the twenty-fifth, dawned bright and fair. My mind was fully
made up and I was feeling fine. Germaine was still anxious about me
at breakfast but I soon convinced her that there was nothing serious
involved. I laughed secretly as I said it.
"You know," I told her, "I think I'll drive over to Hartford and have
those people at the Sanctuary look me over again. I think I need some
kind of rest--the reaction, you know."
My wife raised no objection. In fact, she seemed rather relieved as
though my aloof conduct of the previous night had been a shock to her
self-confidence.
"I'll stop off at the kennels on my way over," I added, "just to make
sure that Ponto is all right."
My plan was to remove the dog and drive to White Plains. Then, if there
was any issue raised as to my need for a rest-cure, it would appear
that I had inexplicably ordered my favorite dog chloroformed. That
would clinch it with Germaine as nothing else could.
She seemed rather subdued as she went upstairs and helped me pack my
things in a suitcase. She did not offer to kiss me good-bye as I drove
the Packard out of the garage and rolled around the graveled drive
toward my road to freedom.
First, of course, I stopped at Dr. Rutherford's office. It was early
in the morning and he hadn't finished breakfast. The maid admitted me
to the reception-room and while waiting for him, I made out a check
for fifteen thousand dollars to the order of Jeremiah Rutherford, and
marked across the back, "For Professional Services."
"Here you are, Jerry," I informed him when he finally appeared. "I
would have got it to you sooner except that my lawyer went off the deep
end with a girl in Hartford. He should have had the papers ready on
Monday and here it is Wednesday."
"Thanks," he said briefly. "Are you feeling okay?" he asked. "You look
a bit shaky."
I laughed. "Set it down to my liver," I told him. "I had a wet night
last night and am a little rocky this morning. As a matter of fact, I
think I'll run over the The Sanctuary and ask Folsom to put me up for a
few days. My nerves are shot to hell."
"Good idea," he murmured absently. "I'll go down to the bank and put
this in for collection. My Army papers came through yesterday and I'm
all set."
I climbed into my car and tooled along the roads until, after inquiring
at a couple of filling stations, I located Dalrymple's kennels.
"I've come for Ponto," I told the vet.
Dalrymple seemed rather embarrassed. "Are you sure you need him?"
he asked. "He's just served Buglebell III--that's the prize-winning
brindle bitch owned by one of the Fortune editors--and I was planning--"
"You can cancel your plans," I informed him. "And as for Buglebell's
pups, I'll buy the litter. What _were_ your other plans, anyhow?"
Dalrymple was quite abashed. "Not exactly anything, Mr. Tompkins,
sir," he said. "It was only that--"
I nodded majestically. "Once is enough," I said, "and you can be
thankful I don't report you to the Kennel Club for bootlegging
thoroughbred puppies. Ponto comes with me--now."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Tompkins," the vet agreed humbly.
Dalrymple was a broken man but Ponto was not a broken dog. However,
marriage coming so soon after distemper had curbed his spirit and he
slouched into the Packard.
As soon as I was out on the main road again, I stepped on the
accelerator, heading the car southward in the general direction of
White Plains.
Ponto sat panting on the seat beside me, but in his weary eye I saw
all the Westchester stock-brokers who had ever annoyed me. I also saw
Winnie, and Winnie was to die.
I admit that I was day-dreaming a bit as I rounded the turn. In any
case, I was driving fast and had not fully accustomed myself to
handling the Packard. The other automobile backed violently out of the
driveway on the right, the dope of a driver not looking to see if there
was any traffic coming. I slapped my foot down on the brake, missed
and hit the accelerator. The Packard gave a wild leap ahead. The other
car--a battered old Chevrolet--completely blocked the road. I jammed on
the hand-brake and twisted the steering gear so that the Packard ran up
the bank of an elderly apple-tree. My head snapped forward, there was a
blinding flash and then complete blackness.
* * * * *
Seconds or centuries later I opened my eyes. The old Chevy seemed to
have pulled away and was now parked ahead of us along the righthand
side of the road. My wind-shield had not shattered and, so far as I
could see, no major damage had been done to my car though I hated to
think of the fenders. I ached in every limb.
My neck itched intolerably so I scratched it with my left leg. I shook
myself. "Well, I'll be damned!" I exclaimed, only to hear a deep growl
that seemed to originate from within my hairy chest.
I glanced over my shoulder. There, in the seat beside me, hunched
forward over the steering-wheel, sat a heavy-built man, a thin trickle
of blood sliding down his cheek, his eyes closed and his lips open,
while he snorted with concussion.
Instinctively, I called for help. My reward was a series of loud,
angry barks. Again my ear itched and I scratched it again with my left
leg. It seemed that I had become a dog. The man beside me stirred and
moaned. Then he opened his eyes.
"Ponto," he said dreamily. "Good dog!"
The driver of the other car walked back and was standing by the window.
"You all right, mister?" he asked. "You was doing fifty easy. Lucky for
you I see you coming."
The man in the driver's seat gave a feeble smile. "My fault," he
admitted. "I was day-dreaming. Lucky this heap has good brakes. Are you
all right? Any damage, I mean?"
The other man laughed. "Sure," he said. "I'll go on now, just so
you're all right. Want a doc?"
"Uh-uh!" the man on the seat beside me shook his head. "My name's
Tompkins and I live in Bedford Hills. If there's any damage, it's my
fault and I'll pay for it. Sure you're okay?"
"Yep!" agreed the owner of the Chevrolet. "You got a cut or something.
Reckon you'd ought to see a doc."
"I will," said the man beside me. "Don't worry. I'll be all right. Just
bumped my head a bit."
We waited until the Chevrolet had rattled itself around the turn of the
road. Then the man cautiously tried the gears and disinfiltrated the
Packard from the apple-tree. He got out and inspected the car carefully
for damage and then climbed back behind the steering-wheel. I started
to ask him a question. It was a whine.
"Why Ponto!" he exclaimed. "You old black devil. How are you, hound?
Long time no see."
"Hot damn!" he exclaimed, after a pause. "Have I been on a _drunk_! You
know, Ponto, I dreamed that I was you and if there's anything in dreams
I bet I'm the only Republican in Westchester County that ever married a
brindle bitch named Buglebell.
"Let's see," he continued. "Where were we? Earlier today I went to the
Pond Club and had a couple of drinks. How in hell do I find myself
here? I must have drawn one hell of a blank, Ponto, the damndest blank
I've ever drawn in my life."
His eyes looked down on the seat beside us, where I had left a copy of
the morning New York Times.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "That's funny. Here it is. Good Lord! the
twenty-fifth of April! So I've been out for three weeks. That is a
blank to end all blanks."
He whistled tunelessly between his teeth. Then he cast a glance toward
the back seat, where my suitcase rested.
"What gives," he inquired. "I'm not leaving home, for God's sake?
Ponto, old boy, you just stick by me and we'll go back to the house and
see what this is all about."
"Yes," I barked at him.
"That's a good dog," he said affably. "That's a good Ponto."
He backed the Packard into the driveway that had been my nemesis and
turned the car around.
As we approached the house he slowed the car to a dead stop.
"Ponto," he told me. "Here's where you and I go into a committee of the
whole. What's been going on around here? There's been one hell of a
mix-up if you ask me. I had a dream--"
The sooner I got his mind off this subject the safer I would be. I laid
my ears back and woofed.
"Attaboy!" he agreed. "Now let's take a look at this paper.... What?
Roosevelt's dead? Why doesn't anybody tell me these things? And
Germany's about to flop? Whew! Who would have dreamed it? You know,
hound, I feel like Rip Van Winkle coming back after twenty years sleep."
I tried to look ingratiating and let my tongue loll fetchingly out of
the side of my mouth.
"Say!" he exclaimed harshly. "Now it's beginning to come back. You
took my place while I was--God! have _you_ ever been introduced to
a great big dog and told she's your wife? Well, damn it! you and
Jimmie--Oh, hell, this is one godawful mess! What's been happening
around here, anyhow? Am I going nuts?"
I pricked up my ears and gave a false, loving whine. I licked his
stinking hands.
"Okay, okay," Winnie agreed. "It's not your fault. But what the hell
happened is beyond me. I hate to think of those prime asses, Phil and
Graham, in this market. And what happened to Virginia? That's one gal
you didn't know about, Ponto. She's for me, and how!"
He took another look at the paper.
"Oh, the hell with it!" he growled. "If Jimmie doesn't like it, she
knows what she can do about it. Let's go on home, Ponto, and just tell
her man-to-man where she gets off."
I barked.
He put his foot on the accelerator and whirled up the drive to come to
a stop in front of Pook's Hill.
Before he had switched off the engine, the front door opened and
Germaine appeared.
"Heavens!" she exclaimed, "you're back early. Have you changed your
mind again?"
"Yep," Winnie said. "I decided to come back home, after all."
She smiled. "I'm glad," she told him. "I couldn't make out why you were
so keen to go back to Hartford so soon after you got out. You come on
in, darling, and Myrtle and I will take care of you. Gracious! There's
blood on your cheek. Did you hurt yourself?"
Her voice was warm and loving and made my hair rise slightly. If he
tried any monkey-business with her, I'd rip his throat out. I growled.
"Oh, good!" she laughed. "You got Ponto. Did he have a nice honeymoon,
poor darling? Is Dalrymple satisfied? Would you like to put in for one
of the pups?"
I growled again.
She laughed. "Oh, Winnie, he looks so shattered. He--what _did_ happen
to your head, darling?"
He grinned. "We almost had an accident. I was headed towards the
Parkway when a car backed out. We bumped into an apple-tree. No harm
done but I was knocked out for a few minutes and I guess it must have
shaken me up."
She lifted her face to his and kissed him until I could feel thick, hot
rage mount inside my throat and force itself out in a deep rumbling
growl.
"Look," she said, "he's jealous. Poor Ponto!"
And she kneeled beside me, put her arm around my neck and pressed my
head affectionately.
"There!" she said briskly. "You're a good dog. You're my Ponto and I'll
take care of you."
Tompkins glowered at me and her.
"Stop driveling over that damn dog," he said, "and come on into the
house."
Germaine gave me a farewell pat on the head.
"He's such a good dog," she announced, "and now that he's been properly
married he'll settle down, I hope. I've been quite worried over the way
he's been acting. But it's all right now, Ponto, isn't it? Was your
girl-friend nice, old boy? Huh? Are you happy?"
I tried to explain things but all that came to my lips was a series of
whines and growls.
"Come along, Jimmie," Tompkins insisted. "I'm cold. Damn it all! I've
had a shock and all you can think of doing is to slobber over a dog.
Let him have a run."
So she got off her knees and followed him obediently into the house.
I sat for a moment, pondering my predicament.
This was Fate. Three seconds would have made all the difference but
here I was, a dog. Conditions were reversed and I might as well be
philosophical about it. Winnie never dreamed that conditions were not
as they had been before the second of April, just as though Frank
Jacklin had never existed. The chances were that he would continue to
believe that it was all a dream, an hallucination. As for the F.B.I.
and Von Bieberstein, putting first things first, that was no longer
any of my business. Dogs were not expected to develop patriotism: that
luxury was reserved for human beings. All I could do now was to wait
my chance. Perhaps the time would come when I could repossess Winnie
Tompkins' body. Then, by George! I would not waste one minute but would
have him chloroformed at once. In the meantime, my cue was to be a good
dog.
There was a shrill whistle from the house.
"Ponto!" Winnie's voice called. "Come here, Ponto. That's a good dog!
Come on, Ponto! That's a good dog!"
I ran, wagging my tail, to the open door and on all fours entered the
house I had left only two hours before as its proud master.