There were five in the family and Dicky, nearly nine, was the youngest
but one. Dicky’s father was a country doctor, and, like many country
doctors, he led rather a hard life. The sick people he visited lived
miles apart, and many were too poor to pay him properly.
Dr. Brook was a tall, pale man with grizzled hair turning to grey. He
was clever, and he had a quick, short way of talking. He seemed to make
up his mind about everything in a moment, and if you asked him a
question, he answered as though it ought not to have been necessary to
explain.
Dicky would have been surprised to hear that his father was a kind man,
but kind he was. He hated attending upon well-to-do people who had
nothing much the matter with them, though he knew he must visit them to
make enough money to bring up his own children properly.
He would remember this while he was driving miles out of his way to see
some poor cottager, and so, when he arrived at the cottage, he was
usually in a bad temper. On the other hand, when he was calling on old
Mrs. Varden at The Grange, who was sound as a bell and would probably
live to be ninety, he was always thinking of those who really wanted
looking after. Then, instead of smiling sympathetically, while she told
him how queer she had felt in the middle of the night three weeks ago,
or how well her nephews were doing, he would stand in front of the fire
in her cosy sitting-room, look up at the ceiling with a stern
expression, and rattle the keys in his pocket in a manner which said
plainly, “How much longer shall I have to listen to this stuff?” So,
although everybody thought Dr. Brook “a very clever doctor,” few people
were fond of him.
All day he went bumping and rushing along the country lanes and roads in
his shabby, muddy car, which he never had time to clean properly; and
when he got home his day’s work was not over. In the evening he turned
schoolmaster and taught his children.
Dicky’s mother had died when his brother Peregrin was born. Ella, the
eldest of the children, a grown-up girl, kept house and taught Dicky and
Peregrin in the morning. She was very like her father in many ways, only
her cleverness had turned to music. She played the violin beautifully,
and she was dying to get away from home and become a famous musician.
Dr. Brook knew this and was very sorry for her; but he could not let her
go till Dicky and Peregrin went to school. She had to be a governess
till then. The other two boys had done very well. They had both got
scholarships, and little Peregrin was as sharp as a needle.
Altogether the doctor had to admit he was very blessed in his children.
But there was Dicky! Dicky was a dunce, there was no doubt about it—at
least, so Ella reported. And when Dicky showed his smudgy exercise-books
to his father in the evenings, his father thought it only too true.
Dicky dreaded the evening every day. He did not much mind his sister
Ella’s crossness. He was used to it. But there was something awful about
the weary quiet way his father used to ask, “Do you understand _now_?”
Dicky had then to say “Yes,” and presently his father would find out he
hadn’t understood at all. There would be a still longer pause, and at
last his father would sigh, “Unhappy boy, what will become of you!”
This was far worse than being slapped by Ella, though her ring sometimes
really did hurt. His father would then repeat what he had said before,
twice, very slowly, as though he were dropping the words drop by drop
into a medicine glass, looking at Dicky all the time, till Dicky’s lips
began to quiver and his eyes to fill, when his father would say hastily,
pulling out his watch, “There, there. It’s time for bed. Run along. Kiss
me.” Then Dicky’s one desire was to get out of the room before bursting
into tears. He did not mind if it happened outside the door or upstairs.
Indeed, it was rather a comfort to cry, especially if he could only get
hold of Jasper, the black spaniel, to hug and talk to while he was
crying. But he was terrified at breaking down before his father. He
somehow felt if he did, he might never stop sobbing, or that something
else dreadful would happen. One evening it did happen.
The day had been altogether a bad day. Dicky had got up that morning
feeling as if his head was rather smaller and lighter than usual. It
felt about the size of an apple. Ella had had a fat letter that morning
from her bosom friend, at the Royal College of Music in London. Lessons
were always worse on the days she heard from her, and that morning it
was true also, for once in a way, that Dicky had really _not_ been
“trying.” He had begun by making thirty-four mistakes in his French
dictation—and he was rather glad. During arithmetic he had amused
himself by imagining that the numbers had different characters, and that
some of them were very pleased to find themselves side by side in the
sums. The result was that all his sums were wrong, and he had
exasperated Ella by telling her that it was the fault of number 8, who
was a quarrelsome widow and wore spectacles.
When left alone to do his Latin Prose, while Ella went to her bedroom to
practise furiously on the fiddle, he had spent the time in teasing a
beetle by hemming it in between canals of ink on the schoolroom table.
He liked the beetle, but he enjoyed imagining its disgust and
perplexity, and he enjoyed feeling that he could, but wouldn’t, drown
it. When Ella came back and found that he had only written one Latin
word, “Jam” (already), on the paper, she tore the exercise book from him
and said that he could do what he liked: she would tell his father and
never teach him again—never, never, never.
[Illustration: “SHE WOULD NEVER TEACH HIM AGAIN—NEVER, NEVER”]
But the evening was a long way off, and Dicky walked into the garden, in
a gloomy sort of way rather proud of himself. He found, however, he
could not amuse himself, so he devoted himself to amusing Jasper,
chasing him in circles about the lawn and throwing sticks for him to
fetch. When the dog had had enough, and lay down on the grass with his
paws out in front of him like a lion, Dicky did not know what to do
next. He went down himself on all fours and kissed Jasper, who
responded, between quick pants, with a hasty slobber of his pink
quivering tongue, as though he were snapping at a fly. Ah, if only he
were as happy as Jasper! Dicky suddenly remembered that an old gentleman
had once given him a sort of blessing, saying, “May you be as happy as a
good dog.” What an easy time Jasper had! Of course he got into trouble
if he rolled in things, but if Dicky were in his shoes—or perhaps he
ought to say on his paws—_he_ wouldn’t want to. (Jasper certainly had a
very odd taste in scent.) Examinations, scholarships—those awful things
meant nothing to him. Dicky thought he could have easily managed to be a
good dog. And since he wanted to stop thinking about himself, he began
to play a favourite game of imagining what Jasper said to other dogs
about his home and the family. How he would boast to them of the
excellent rabbit-hunting in the copse near by, of the good bones he had
and the warm fires; and how he would tell them about jumping on Dick’s
bed in the morning and how perfectly Dick and he understood each other.
But the worst of it was that unless one were tired and a little sleepy,
one could not go on with that game very long. It soon began to seem
silly. It was not a good morning game.
Ella was very grim at lunch and only spoke to Peregrin. After luncheon
Dicky felt very inclined to work—anything to stop thinking. He said
something about learning grammar, but Ella took all the books away and
locked them up. She said he could do _whatever he liked_. This had never
happened before and it frightened him.
He went for a walk by himself. The sky was grey and the hedges were
dripping and his feet felt heavy. He actually tried to remember what
cases the different prepositions governed in Latin, as he walked along,
in the hope of surprising his father in the evening; but the fear that
he might be repeating them to himself all wrong made him hopeless. It
was never safe to learn without the book. Only once, when a red stoat
ambled with arched back across the lane, did he forget himself. A stoat,
too, must have a jolly life, he thought, even if it ended by being
nailed up on a door by a keeper. He stayed out till it was dark and past
tea time.
His father’s hat and coat were not in the hall when he returned, so
Dicky knew he had not yet come back. Upstairs he could hear the wailing
of Ella’s violin. He went up and knocked at her door. She did not say
“Come in,” or stop bowing away or frowning at the music on the stand in
front of her. “If you’re hungry get milk in the kitchen,” she said, her
chin still on the fiddle, “and—shut the door.”
Dicky did so, and stood for a minute outside it. Then he went slowly to
the schoolroom and sat down at the table. Peregrin was already in bed,
and there was nothing to do but to wait.
Time passed very slowly, and if Dicky had not known that he was dreading
something, he would have thought he must be ill. He did, indeed, feel
very queer. At last he heard the front door slam and the tramp of his
father’s stride in the hall. The same instant the sound of the violin
stopped and Ella walked rapidly along the passage; and before Dicky knew
what he was doing he had started to run after her. At the head of the
stairs he stopped himself, and peeping over the bannisters he saw that
his father had hesitated in the middle of pulling off his coat, and was
staring at Ella, who was talking vehemently in front of him. Dicky heard
her raised voice saying, “It is hopeless. Father, I won’t; I really
can’t. He....” His father finished getting out of his coat without a
word; then they both went into the study. The door closed behind them,
and Dicky crept back to the schoolroom.
Presently, he heard Ella calling him to come down. A few minutes before,
his legs had carried him to the top of the stairs without his wanting
it, now they refused to move. “Father wants you in the study at once,”
she shouted, and she continued to call, “Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick.” There
was a long pause and Ella herself stood in the doorway.
“Father is coming to whip you,” she said, and walked off to her room.
But he did not come. Dicky waited with beating heart, but he did not
come. He waited till he almost forgot he was waiting, and yet his father
did not come. And when at last he heard soft shuffling steps coming
along the passage, his heart almost stopped. To his astonishment he saw
in the darkness beyond the door two small round orange lamps shining
about a foot from the ground. It was only Jasper, who padded quietly
into the room and lay down on the hearthrug with a quiet sigh of
satisfaction. Having settled himself in the shape of a large foot-stool,
Jasper did not lift his nose again, but he turned up his eyes at
Dicky—they were brown eyes now, exquisitely humble and kind—and wagged
his stumpy tail. Dicky had flung himself on the floor beside the dog and
embraced him. Were these the terrible sobs which would never leave off?
No, presently they did stop; and gradually Dicky even forgot that he was
waiting for something awful. The occasional dab of the dog’s cold nose
on his hot cheeks was comforting, and so it was to curl all round him.
Dicky felt almost as though he were a dog himself when he was curled up
like that.
“Do you know, Jasper, if I were a dog, I should be a very clever dog?
Much, much cleverer than you,” he whispered with his face buried in the
black fur. His head felt swollen and confused. “A re-markable dog,” he
repeated, “I should be a very re-markable dog.”
Downstairs Dr. Brook was sitting close up to the fire and staring
gloomily into it. He had forgotten that he held a short switch in his
hand, and that it still hung down between his knees. He was thinking in
pictures and the pictures were not of Dicky. He had forgotten Dicky; he
had even forgotten himself. They say the whole of life passes before a
drowning man’s eyes. The doctor ever since he sat down had felt like a
man drowning in a sea of troubles. If not the whole of his own life,
still, much of it, had passed before his eyes. Only when at last he was
eating his cold solitary dinner in the dining-room, did he remember
again that Dicky had been naughty that morning, and that Dicky was
probably incurably stupid. But even if he were it did not seem now to
matter much, or to matter in a different way. Ella, too, he thought,
must go to her College of Music; things could somehow be managed. The
doctor sat a very long time over his dinner.
But upstairs still stranger things were happening to Dick. First he felt
hot and large, then cold and small. He kept on shivering. Was this silky
hair his own or Jasper’s? And where was he? He was apparently in a wet,
grey place. What he touched with his hands and feet felt rough and
gritty. Suddenly he saw a brown stoat with an arched back ambling
rapidly in front of him—it was as big as a fox. Yes, he was on a
road—the very road he had walked along that very afternoon, only now the
wet hedges were ever so much higher. And before Dicky knew what he was
doing he was dashing after the stoat, right into the quickset hedge
after it. What was he doing? He smelt a queer strong smell which excited
him; and he pushed and struggled through the roots and thorns, following
the smell. He seemed, too, to be wearing a very odd cap with long flaps,
which kept catching in the brambles and dragging him back. This did not
hurt, but it was a nuisance, and he had constantly to shake his head. He
traced the smell of stoat to a rabbit hole and thrust his head down it.
Hullo! Dicky had no idea rabbits smelt so deliciously, as nice as
pineapples or peaches! Dicky had wanted to kill the stoat, but he would
have liked to eat the rabbit. He tried to make the hole larger, by
tearing away the earth with his hands, but, although he got on much
faster than he expected, he soon saw that was no use; and dragging
himself violently backwards out of the hedge, he found himself in the
road again with nothing to do.
Yes, there was nothing, absolutely nothing to do. The sensation was a
strange one, for he couldn’t even think of anything. He just stood there
snuffing the wet wind. Then suddenly he found himself trotting towards
home. He had not gone very far when he was aware of another smell which
he somehow recognised instantly as “The Sacred Smell.” He knew what it
was, though he had never smelt it properly before. It reminded him of a
feeling he had sometimes had in church—how long ago that seemed!—and
partly of a feeling he had had when once an old general in scarlet and
covered with medals had patted him on the head. Only this time The
Sacred Smell was mixed with other smells; with smells of horse, leather,
onions and smoke. This, Dicky knew, was not as it should be, and he was
distinctly alarmed. However, he thought he had better stand still. It
was always better, something whispered to him, not to run away from The
Sacred Smell—unless the danger was terrific.
Of course, having smelt The Sacred Smell, he was not at all surprised to
see next a huge pair of muddy boots coming towards him, and a pair of
huge knees in dirty trousers moving up and down. When they were a short
distance off, they stopped; and Dicky, looking up, saw what he had
expected; an unshaven, dark-skinned Man in a cap, with a spotted
handkerchief knotted round his neck. The Man made a squeaking noise with
his pursed-up lips, such as rats make, and slapped his thigh once or
twice. Dicky knew what this meant, but even when the Man called in a
croaking voice, “E-e-e-’ere good boy,” Dicky still thought it was best
not to move. He stood and turned his face instead to the hedge, looking,
no doubt, as absent-minded and miserable as he felt. (It was odd, but
_now_ when Dicky felt wretched and miserable that feeling was strongest,
not just under the middle of his ribs, but at the end of his spine where
his legs began; there now was the seat of anguish.) The Man took a step
or two nearer, then another step. Still Dicky did not stir. Suddenly the
Man dashed forward and made a grab at him. Dicky ducked, started aside
and bumped right into the road-bank. He saw the Man’s hand outstretched
above him, and he knew there was now only one thing to do: to roll right
over on to his back, in order to show he wouldn’t resist and hoped for
mercy. The Man stroked Dicky’s head and made soothing noises; and then,
suddenly, put an arm under him, lifting him up and holding him tight to
his side.
[Illustration: “THE MAN DASHED FORWARD AND MADE A GRAB AT HIM”]
Dicky felt perfectly miserable, but what could he do? He knew it would
be folly to try to escape, and that it would be wiser to wait for an
opportunity. The Man tucked him with a jerk still more firmly under his
arm, and started to walk slowly on. He walked on for more than an hour,
till they came to a gorse common, where a caravan was standing with
empty shafts and a pair of steps behind. Gripping Dicky tighter than
ever the Man gave a whistle, and a Woman came out of the caravan.
“Where did you find him, Joe?” said the Woman, looking at Dicky.
“’Long road,” said the Man, jerking his head backwards.
“You ain’t been and thrown away his collar, ’ave you, Joe?”
“’Adn’t any,” said the Man. Dicky was very dazed, but he did think they
were talking about him in an odd way.
“Better take ’im where he belongs,” said the Woman. “The cops won’t
believe as such as ’e is ours. He looks well cared for. Might get five
bob.”
Dicky did not try to tell them where he lived; he felt somehow it would
be no use to try.
Instead of answering the Man just threw him into the caravan and shut
the door. Although it was nearly dark, Dicky found he could see
surprisingly well. Presently a tin bowl full of scraps of meat and bones
was thrust in. Dicky would have been revolted by such a mess a short
time ago, but now, though he was too scared to feel hungry, he could not
resist putting his face close to it and giving a sniff. It really smelt
uncommonly good. He put out the tip of his tongue and touched a
brown-looking, ragged bit of gristle. Yes, it was good. Then all of a
sudden he understood what must have happened. He had changed into a dog!
Into a black spaniel!
He dashed at the door, shouting at the top of his voice, “Let me out!
Let me out!” Alas, the only word which sounded at all like what he
wanted to say was, “Out.” “Out, out, out, out,” he kept barking, hoping
that the Man and Woman would understand. They took no notice; but he
could not stop. “Out, out, out,” he barked. He shook the door by jumping
at it; he tore at the wood with his nails. There was a latch just within
his reach when he sprang up, but his paws—yes, it was only too true, his
hands were round, black and feathery—could not lift it. “Out, out, out.”
No answer. At last he gave it up, and lay down on the floor, feeling
very tired. It occurred to him presently that he might think better
while gnawing a bone. So he went to the bowl and pulled out the largest.
It was a slight comfort to him. With his head on one side and his teeth
sliding along the bone, he found he could think a little more calmly.
How was he to let them know that he was not a real dog, but a boy called
Dicky Brook? He tried again to talk. After a lot of practice he
succeeded in making a sound rather like “Brrr-ook,” but it was also too
sadly like the noise Jasper made when he was too lazy to bark or had
been told to stop barking. Dicky was afraid they would never understand.
But surely a very clever dog could make people understand somehow?
At last the door opened and the Man appeared, black against the starry
sky. He stumbled over Dicky, swore and lit a stinking lamp-flame the
size of the blade of a pocket knife. He was followed by the Woman.
Outside Dicky could see the red glow of the fire which had cooked their
dinner. Now was his chance. What should he do to astonish them? That was
the first thing to do, to astonish them till they began to understand.
But all Dicky could think of was a doggy thing after all: he sat up and
begged. The Woman grinned at him, but the Man, who was pulling off his
great boots, flung one at him, which Dicky dodged. He at once sat up on
his hind-legs again, this time joining his paws and holding them up high
in front of him.
“Bli’my Joe, look at the dawg!” exclaimed the Woman. “It’s saying its
prayers!”
The Man, too, stared in astonishment.
“I don’t like it,” said the Woman.
Dicky felt greatly encouraged. At home he was fond of turning
somersaults. Now, down went his head and over went his hind-legs. It was
not a good somersault (he was too short in the legs for somersaults now)
but it was one. The Man gave a shout of laughter, and his face lit up
with joy and cunning.
“S’truth, it’s a performing dawg! I ain’t taking ’im back, no fear.
He’ll make our fortunes.”
At these words Dicky saw he had made a terrible mistake. If he was a
dog, he had better not be a re-markable dog.
[Illustration: “HE COULD NOT FALL ANY FURTHER”]
The door was still open, and through it he dashed, taking the steps at a
leap. Now he was falling, falling, falling. What a height! Oh, would he
never reach the bottom? Stars were flying above him like bees. The awful
thing was that he was beginning to fall slowly, while a huge arm with a
hand at the end of it was stretching out, longer and longer, after him.
He was not even falling slowly now; he was floating. He tried to force
himself down through the air, but though there was nothing to keep him
up he could not fall any further. Suddenly the arm gripped him. In an
agony of terror he yelled: “I’m not a dog.” He heard his own voice, and,
to his amazement, he saw his father’s face close to his; it was his
father’s arm lifting him from the hearthrug. He felt a hand cool on his
forehead. “Dick, you’re feverish. My little Dick.” His father’s voice
had never sounded like that before, and he felt himself being
carried—deliciously safe—to bed.
“After all,” he said to himself, as he snuggled down, “I’m glad I’m not
a dog.”
[Illustration]