He was called Rough-leg, and he deserved the name.
He was probably the very ugliest dog that ever was seen: long-legged,
rough-haired, with pointed ears lopping down a little at the ends, a
long nose, and yellow eyes. Nobody could have told to what breed he
belonged. He had the head of a wolf, the legs of a hound, the body of a
bull-dog, the hair of a Spitz, the bushy tail of a setter, and the
color of a badger dog. He was thin as a herring, and as dirty as a
sewer cleaner. Matted tufts of hair hung from his body like the rags of
a tramp. His torn ears told tales of many a fierce fight. The violence
and perseverance with which he bit and scratched showed what an
unpleasant multitude of hopping brown guests he had in his dirty hide.
But under this ugly hide Rough-leg had excellent qualities. He was as
strong as a bear and as brave as a lion, but he was also faithful as a
good dog ought to be, and good-natured, even though he fared very
badly, and had every reason to complain of his fate.
Fortune certainly did not favor him. He belonged to an old
scissors-grinder, who went with his cart from village to village. He
had to help drag the things for him, and his master gave him very
little to eat, because he usually had nothing himself, but plenty of
kicks and blows when he wanted to vent on somebody his rage for earning
so little.
Yet Rough-leg always forgave his master for everything. When the old
fellow was drunk,—and that happened every time he had a few pennies to
buy a drop of something strong,—he was kind to Rough-leg, patted him,
and talked to him like a sensible, beloved companion. And when he had
poured out his heart to him, he lay down wherever he was, in the grass,
the moss in the forest, or in the ditch by the road, and began to
snore, while Rough-leg stretched himself beside him, and watched his
sleep and the cart, which was everything in the world that his master
could call his own.
One evening the old scissors-grinder, after a carouse, again fell
asleep in the ditch, and did not wake any more, for he was dead.
Rough-leg perceived that there was something strange about his master,
when he no longer heard him snore. He snuffed at him, licked his face,
pushed him with his muzzle, scratched his breast with his paws, and
when the old man, in spite of everything, still lay silent and
motionless and began to grow cold, Rough-leg set up such a terrible
howling that all the dogs for miles around answered, and very early in
the morning people came running up, who saw that the old man had died
in the night.
They wanted to take away the body and the cart, but Rough-leg thought
he must not allow it, and rushed furiously at everybody who came near.
The constable drew his sword, and would certainly have killed him if he
had not jumped away from his blows and thrusts. But he did not escape
the sticks and stones of the peasants, who beat him unmercifully until
he saw that he could do nothing against them. So he no longer tried to
prevent their taking the body away, and dragged himself off a short
distance, badly hurt, whining and moaning as they carried his master to
the village churchyard.
There was not much ceremony over the poor scissors-grinder. After a few
official inquiries, and a little writing, he was put into a grave, and
then nobody thought any more about him. Rough-leg had dragged himself
to the churchyard, and watched behind a tombstone, as they laid his
master in the earth and filled up the grave. When all the people had
gone, he crept out of his hiding place, went to the fresh mound, and
began with the greatest energy to dig his master out. He had already
made quite a large hole when the grave-digger saw him and ran forward
with uplifted shovel and loud shouts. Rough-leg saw that he could do
nothing against the angry armed man, so he limped out of the
churchyard, and the grave-digger locked it. It was impossible to jump
over the wall again, it was too high. He could not stay with his
master’s body, so he went back to the place where he had died, and lay
down on the edge of the ditch, determined not to leave the spot.
Near by was a castle with a large garden in front, separated from the
road by a fence. Here, surrounded by her servants, lived an old
countess, who had a pug-dog, of which she was extravagantly fond. His
name was Darling; he was yellow, with a black face, and a little short,
stubby figure. He was a very aristocratic dog. His hair looked well
kept, for he was bathed, perfumed, brushed, and combed every day. On
his left forepaw he wore a gold bracelet, around his neck a white
collar with a light blue border, and when he went out, he had a fine
cloth blanket with a silk lining, on one corner of which a coronet was
embroidered. If it had rained before his walk, he wore rubber shoes to
keep his paws from being wet or muddy.
He was very handsome in his rich clothes and costly jewelry, but all
these fine things gave him no pleasure. They were only troublesome. How
gladly he would have run barefoot through the puddles, and trotted
along in the dust. How gladly he would have shaken off the heavy
clothes and, with nothing but his smooth skin, raced about like the
other dogs, whom he envied when he watched them through the fence of
the castle courtyard running, jumping, rolling, and romping with each
other to their hearts’ content. He was not allowed to join them. A
servant of his own constantly watched to prevent his having any
acquaintance with strange dogs. His prison was his mistress’s room.
Only twice a day would she let him go out a short time in the castle
yard, under the care of a man, usually on a leash, to get a little
exercise, breathe the fresh air, etc. These walks were so tiresome that
he preferred to stay with the old countess. From lack of exercise, and
an oversupply of dainties and rich food, he became a shapeless lump of
fat, grew short-breathed, gouty, and had a perpetual itching of the
skin, so that, though he was kept so clean, he was obliged to scratch
as often and as hard as poor Rough-leg, who had never made acquaintance
with brush and comb, warm bath or soap.
The discovery of the dead scissors-grinder in the ditch had brought a
great crowd before the castle fence, and the castle servants had also
run out to look. Darling was there, too, pressing his black face, with
its snub nose and short muzzle, against the rails to see what was going
on. When the people set upon Rough-leg with clubs and swords, and
almost broke his bones, the pug was furious, and barked as loud as his
short breath would permit. The human beings did not understand, but he
knew Rough-leg’s faithful heart, and would have gone to help the dead
man’s friend, whom they so unjustly abused, if he had only been able.
Lying on his dark blue velvet cushion in his mistress’s room, he
thought all day long of the scene which he had witnessed the day
before. The dog outside there was shamefully abused; he was apparently
of the most humble origin, he was certainly ill-bred, rough, not even
clean; he was dirty and ragged. But he was much better than he, the
aristocratic pug, the trained and wealthy pet.
The strange fellow owed his master nothing, for he had not even fed
him, his leanness showed that. And yet he was faithful to him unto
death; he would not leave his lifeless body; he would rather endure the
most cruel treatment than to neglect his duty as guard. Would he,
Darling, have been capable of such heroic steadfastness? He perceived
with shame that it was doubtful. His mistress spoiled him. She was rich
and titled. Her rank made every one treat her with respect, and on her
account he, too, received the honor due to the pug of a lady of
quality. She fed him with cake and roast beef. And yet, if she should
die, he would not show his teeth at everybody who came near, and he
would not expose himself to any special danger of being beaten with
swords and clubs. These thoughts filled him with self-reproach and, at
the same time, with admiration for the ugly cur on the high-road, who
seemed to him a model of faithful duty.
When Darling, attended by his servant, was allowed to go out again into
the castle courtyard that evening, he waddled to the fence as fast as
his fat and shortness of breath would let him. He at once saw
Rough-leg, who had returned from the churchyard, and was lying in the
ditch with closed eyes, his nose between his forepaws, moaning.
“Here! You! Come over to the fence!” called Darling. Rough-leg took no
notice.
“You are a brave dog! You have my full respect and friendship!” Darling
went on. “I must have a chance to press your paw. Unluckily I can’t get
out to you.”
He was so unused to talking loud, that it made him cough and at the
same time the itching began, which tortured him so much that he fairly
writhed, because his fine blanket and handsome collar and harness
prevented him from scratching to his heart’s content.
Rough-leg now raised his head, opened his eyes, and blinked at him.
“Does anything ail you?” he asked in his hoarse voice.
“Oh, dear, I am so miserable!” replied Darling, piteously, when he had
recovered his breath. He took no offence at plebeian Rough-leg’s
familiarity. “But don’t let us talk about me, but you. I suppose you
loved your master very much?”
“I had no one but him, and he had no one but me in the whole world. I
will not outlive him.”
“Listen to reason, my dear fellow,” cried Darling, in horror. “Surely
you don’t mean to kill yourself?”
Rough-leg made no answer.
“Your master was a poor tramp,” Darling continued.
“Like me,” interrupted Rough-leg, growling.
“Well, then, surely you owe him nothing. He has not been able to do
anything for you. He is dead. You can’t change that. Now think of
yourself. What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I shall stay here.”
“In the night? On the bare ground? Under the open sky?”
“I’m used to it.”
“You have no rheumatism and no asthma, like me. I should die. And who
will give you your food?”
“Nobody. I want to starve to death.”
Darling pitied the despairing fellow more and more. “Be sensible, dear
friend and cousin,” he said. “We must learn how to find comfort. What
would become of us if people took everything so much to heart? I pity
you. I’ll do what I can for you. Wait, I’ll bring you something to eat
presently.” He waddled away from the fence, back into the castle, and
up to his old countess, from whom he begged. She gave him, as usual,
with many pats and loving words, a piece of nice cake. He scarcely
thanked her by a hasty lick of the hand and a quick wag of the tail,
and hurried back to the fence, which he reached panting for breath.
“Here, friend, I have something good for you. But you must come into
the courtyard to me. I can’t get out,” he called to Rough-leg, who was
still lying just where he had left him.
Rough-leg rose and came slowly forward. Darling’s sympathy cheered him
a little in his loneliness. When he reached the fence, Darling pushed
the bit of cake under it and wagged his tail eagerly. He was rejoicing
to think how nice the dainty would taste to the poor, starved fellow.
Rough-leg drew it out with his paw, snuffed at it, and then left it.
“Who can eat such stuff as that?” he growled.
“But that’s cake, my dear fellow!” cried Darling, in astonishment;
“that’s the very nicest thing there is!”
“I don’t know anything about it. It’s not fit for sensible dogs. If you
have a bone, I should like it. If not, leave me alone.”
Darling shook his head, but went back into the castle, looked into the
garbage pail, which he usually was not allowed to meddle with, and
found a big bone, which he dragged to the fence. “Here is a bone, since
you want it,” he said; “but I can’t understand how you can do anything
with this dry, hard thing.”
Rough-leg made no reply. He raked the bone out from under the fence
with his strong paws, broke it in two with one bite, cracked and
splintered it, and, in the shortest possible time, reduced it to very
small pieces and swallowed it. Darling watched the work of his new
friend’s powerful wolf jaws with mingled admiration and horror. When
the latter had finished, he turned toward the fence, licked Darling’s
muzzle with his big tongue, and muttered: “Thank you. You are a good
fellow.”
Darling’s heart leaped with joy. “Ah, if I could only get out to you!”
“Come, then,” answered Rough-leg.
“I dare not,” whined Darling, looking round anxiously for his servant
who, luckily for him, was just talking with one of the countess’s
coachmen, without noticing the pug placed in his care.
“Are you not ashamed to be such a timid fellow?” cried Rough-leg. “The
idea of a dog’s allowing himself to be forbidden a little run.” He
turned as if to go away.
“Don’t go,” called Darling. “I will try to slip out.”
He went cautiously to the gate, which was only ajar, and, seeing that
the servant was still talking, he ventured to steal out.
“Now run,” said Rough-leg, breaking into a long, swift trot. Darling
tried with all his might to keep up with him. But he could not do it.
After a few minutes he fell breathless on the ground and writhed there
panting and moaning. Rough-leg looked at him a moment scornfully, and
yet compassionately, seized him by the skin of the neck, and carried
him along in his mouth, as a mother dog does her puppies. It seemed to
give him no more trouble than if Darling had been a feather. He ran on
until the castle was entirely out of sight, then set him on the ground
and wagged his tail kindly.
“How good you are,” sighed Darling, who had recovered his breath while
in his friend’s mouth. But now the excitement brought on the itching
again, and he scratched piteously, yet without success, on account of
the cloth blanket and other things he had on his body.
“Booby,” growled Rough-leg, after watching him awhile.
He rushed upon Darling so violently that he frightened him and, with a
few bites, tore the fine blanket and collar from his body in ribbons,
broke the bracelet from his paw with one snap, and said, “There, now
you look like a decent dog again, and I need not be ashamed of being
seen in your company.”
Darling had never felt so comfortable since he could remember. He could
scratch himself to his heart’s content, and already the itching was
less because he was entirely undressed and the fresh air blew freely
all around him. Yet, glad as he was, he thought with a few pangs of
conscience of his old mistress, and murmured—“What will they say at the
castle?”
“You can go back there, if you repent,” replied Rough-leg, harshly,
moving as if he were going to trot along.
“Don’t go away,” Darling begged anxiously. “Don’t leave me alone, I
shall be lost without you.”
“Then hold your tongue, and come.”
It had grown dark. Rough-leg’s bones still ached from the beating he
had had, he was tired out, and he saw that his companion was exhausted.
So leading him to a hay-rick in a ploughed field, he said, “We’ll spend
the night here.” He dug out a hole in the hay, pushed the tender
Darling in, and lay down before him. Darling slept better than he had
ever done before. It was very different lying on the hay from being on
a velvet cushion in a curtained, closed apartment. He scarcely felt
even the pains in his limbs, because his friend had warmed him with his
big, strong body.
When he woke early in the morning, he felt like another dog. “You are a
wonderful fellow, Rough-leg,” he said, licking his long, rough muzzle
gratefully. “But I don’t know what ails me—I feel so queer around my
stomach—”
“You are hungry, simpleton, and so am I,” replied Rough-leg.
Hungry! That was a feeling which Darling had never known, or had
forgotten long ago. It gnawed very sharply, but it was far, far
pleasanter than the repugnance which his rich, costly food at the
castle had inspired.
“Where shall we find anything to eat?” asked Darling.
“You must go and look,” was the short answer. He snuffed a little
around the hay-rick, then suddenly made a spring and drew out of a
hidden sparrow’s nest a peeping young bird, which he killed with one
bite and tossed to the wondering Darling.
“There, eat it,” he cried, and himself devoured the rest of the brood,
which still remained in the nest.
Then the two went to a neighboring farm-house, and Rough-leg began to
rummage in the dung-heap.
Darling was just going to follow his example, when out rushed the house
dog, barking furiously, and threw himself on the pug, which with a cry
of terror, fell on the ground under the shock. In an instant Rough-leg
was by his side, and a fierce fight began, in which the farm dog was
soon beaten. Off he ran with bleeding ears and lips, howling piteously.
“You have saved my life,” groaned Darling, as they hurried out of the
yard.
“Nonsense!” said Rough-leg, but he ran his tongue tenderly over the
pug’s black face.
A new life, which he had never known before, began for Darling. He
could do just as he pleased, he was always in the open air, he trotted
until he was tired, and lay down to rest wherever he happened to be. He
often fared badly in regard to food. He had to take just what he could
get! in the best case boiled turnips some cow had dropped from her
trough; in the worst, bones picked up on some dung-heap. But this poor
and scanty living, from which he would formerly have turned aside with
loathing, seemed excellent, and even dainty, because he saw how much
Rough-leg enjoyed it. The two friends were often obliged to fight the
village curs; but this no longer frightened Darling, for he knew that
he could depend on Rough-leg. His health daily improved. His rheumatism
and the intolerable itching disappeared, he lost flesh, and, with the
extra flesh, his shortness of breath vanished; he could vie with
Rough-leg in running, and soon made such progress that, to his joyful
surprise, he could help a shepherd, who was driving a flock of sheep
over a cross-road, as well as his nimble Pomeranian, which could not
manage the work alone. The shepherd wanted to keep him, but this did
not suit Darling. “When I want to enter service, I will go back to my
mistress,” he said, and went off with Rough-leg. In the castle the
people were inconsolable over Darling’s disappearance, the servant who
had not watched him properly was dismissed at once, and the countess
advertised that she would pay a large reward to any one who returned
her pug. But no one brought him, because he was not recognized from the
description which mentioned his fine blanket, collar, and bracelet. But
Darling thought of the old countess, and Rough-leg of his dead master,
and, after about a fortnight, the pug said one morning, “Suppose we
should go and see how things are at the castle.”
“Very well,” Rough-leg answered, and the two trotted straight toward
the castle. They were obliged to run many hours before they reached it.
When they arrived, the gate stood open, and Darling walked boldly in.
The servants did not recognize him, for he was as slender and active as
a greyhound, and as dirty as a pig which had just come out of the mire.
But his eyes were bright, his nose was moist, and his bark was as loud
and long as the alarm bell in the steeple. They tried to drive him
away, but he rushed upstairs to the old countess’s room and scratched
at her door. When she heard the familiar sound, she uttered a cry of
joy, started up, and opened it as quick as she could. Darling jumped up
on her and, barking loudly in his delight, licked her face. But she
pushed him away in horror, for he smelled so badly and was so terribly
neglected. She called for perfume and a warm bath, but Darling ran
swiftly away. He would not have them any more, nor his fine clothes,
gingerbread, and velvet cushions.
Rough-leg was lying outside in the ditch, waiting to see whether his
rich friend would forget him or come back to him. In a few minutes
Darling returned. “Won’t you go into the castle with me?” he cried
joyously.
“Yes, so that they can break my limbs or chain me up,” growled
Rough-leg.
“They must kill me first,” answered Darling, urging him along.
At first the people in the courtyard wanted to ill-treat the ugly tramp
dog. But Darling covered him with his body, and they saw that he was
his friend. The case was reported to the countess, who looked out of
her window at the ugly, strong, strange dog; the affection her pug
showed him touched her, and she ordered the servants to let him stay
with Darling. The pug was obliged to allow himself to be thoroughly
cleaned, but he would not lead his former life. So he was permitted to
wander about the courtyard and high-road with Rough-leg, and only came
for a quarter of an hour every morning and evening to the countess,
who, however, could not bear his smell, and in spite of his caresses,
was glad when he went away again. Darling and Rough-leg always remained
the best of friends, and the former often said: “I, the insolent rich
dog, owe to you, the poor fellow, health and life. If the rich would
only always make the poor their friends!”
“It would be a good thing for both,” growled Rough-leg, in his deep
voice.