A FLOCK of pigeons were walking about in front of the engine-house,
picking up the handful of grain that one of the firemen had thrown out
to them. They were not _all_ walking about, to speak accurately,—one,
the little black and white lame pigeon, was hopping, with one little
pink foot held closely against his warm feathers. Jack the Scrapper,
the large handsome dark-blue pigeon with the rainbow neck, was darting
in and out among the flock, seizing upon the largest grains, and
pecking at every pigeon who came in his way.
The pigeons always got out of the way when they saw the Scrapper coming
towards them. Sometimes a bold young pigeon would face him, and stand
his ground for a while, but he didn’t keep up his resistance very
long. The Scrapper was so much stronger and bolder that he always got
the better of the others in the end, and was worse than ever after
these triumphs.
The nearest the Scrapper ever came to defeat was when he was attacked
by the six-months white squab. The squab was large and strong for his
age, and as _good_-natured as the Scrapper was _ill_-natured. He had
long borne the Scrapper’s bullying ways with an ill grace, and once
seeing the bully peck sharply one of the mother pigeons who had meekly
brought up several broods in a most judicious manner, the spirited
squab could contain himself no longer, and flew at the bully with great
fury. Young as the white squab was, the Scrapper had to exert himself
to subdue him, and the valiant squab held out to the last. Although
conquered by brute force, his spirit was as dauntless as ever, and
he vowed dire vengeance so soon as he should have grown to his full
strength.
The white squab had mild eyes and a gentle disposition. He never
picked a quarrel, but never took an insult or saw the weak abused if he
could help it. These traits made him very popular with the flock, and
many of the older pigeons, as they saw him growing stronger and larger,
foretold that Dick the Scrapper would have to look out for himself
when the plucky squab should have attained his growth. Meanwhile
the squab himself said nothing on the subject, but went on his way
good-naturedly, growing stronger every day and pluming his feathers
with great care. He showed no fear of the Scrapper and never got out of
his way as the others did, but it was noticed that the Scrapper never
tried to take the white squab’s food away, nor ever pecked at him to
make him get out of his path. Perhaps he too saw how strong and big the
plucky squab was growing.
This day the flock of pigeons were feeding in front of the
engine-house, and the sparrows soon joined them, hopping in and out
among the pigeons so adroitly that even the Scrapper often found his
food vanish from before his very eyes just as he was on the eve of
picking it up. While they were thus engaged, the two dogs, Jack and
Boxer, came around the corner of the engine house, each with a bone in
his mouth, and they lay down in the sun in front of the engine-house to
eat their lunch in quiet.
The sparrows eyed the two dogs eagerly, hoping that something would be
left for them, for sparrows like to pick a bone as well as dogs do; and
the pigeons walked about, bobbing their pretty heads and cooing to each
other in low tones.
The two dogs were a long time at their repast, for it takes time for a
dog to crack a bone and get at the marrow, which is the sweetest morsel
of all. Not a word passed between them until the bones had been cracked
and the marrow eaten; then they allowed the sparrows to approach and
get what morsels they could from the pieces left.
After they had both lapped their chops in a genteel manner, they began
to talk about the matter that so interested the Fire-Dog.
“Now that the blind kid is so well looked after, the next step is to
find his mother. Mr. Ledwell is trying to hunt her up, but it takes
time.”
“The humans go about those things in such a round-about way,” said
Boxer, who was in an excellent humor after his savory lunch. “If they
knew enough to trust us a little more, they would do better.”
“I believe that the woman is dead,” said the Fire-Dog.
“No, she isn’t,” twittered a voice near by, and one of the sparrows
lighted in front of the two dogs. “No, she isn’t dead, for I’ve seen
her, and know just where she is.”
“How did you happen to find out so much?” asked Jack. “It is more than
likely that it isn’t Billy’s mother at all. You never saw her.”
“Yes, I have seen her,” twittered the sparrow. “We were there when she
fell down on the sidewalk, and we waited around until the ambulance
came and took her away. We flew after it, too, to see what was going
on, and we saw it stop before a big building, and saw them take her out
and carry her in.”
“Very likely she was dead,” said Jack. “_You_ couldn’t tell that, or
she may have died since.”
“No, she wasn’t dead. I could tell by the way they carried her. I know
she hasn’t died since, because I’ve seen her since through the window.
I light on a big tree that grows in front of the window, and I can see
just as plainly as if I were in the room.”
“It all sounds very well,” said business-like Jack, “but for all that
you may be mistaken. It may have been some other woman.”
“I am _not_ mistaken,” chirped the sparrow. “Here is a pigeon who has
talked with her, and he can tell you more about her than I can. I don’t
believe in trusting people too far, so I keep out of reach, but this
speckled pigeon can tell you more about her than I can. Come on, Pepper
and Salt, and tell Jack the Fire-Dog what you know about the blind
kid’s mother.”
The black and white pigeon hopped fearlessly up to the two dogs, and
modestly began his story:—
“You see, I can go ‘most anywhere because I’m lame and nobody would
hurt a lame pigeon.”
“Except Dick the Scrapper,” cooed a young pigeon in tones too low to
reach the Scrapper himself.
“Our friend the sparrow here had told me about the sick woman. He was
pretty sure it was the blind kid’s mother, but he didn’t dare to go too
near. (You know some people don’t like to have sparrows around.) So I
agreed to light on the window-sill and try to find out more. The sick
woman has begun to sit up now, and every day at about noon she sits in
an armchair close to the window. She looks awfully sick yet. Well, the
nurse who takes care of her sprinkled some crumbs on the window-sill,
and when I ate them she was ever so pleased. ‘I believe he would let us
touch him, he looks so tame,’ she said one day; and the nurse said, ‘I
don’t believe it, he’d fly off if you put your hand out towards him.’ I
didn’t, though, and she was more pleased still when I hopped in and let
her stroke my feathers. ‘Poor little thing, he’s lame!’ she said when
she saw my crippled foot. ‘Oh, how my poor little boy would love you!
He couldn’t _see_ you, though, for he’s blind!’ and then she fell to
crying and wondering what had become of her poor blind boy. The nurse
tried to comfort her, and I did my best to make her understand that the
blind kid was all right; but she didn’t take in what I said. I go to
see her every day, and rack my brains to think of some way of bringing
them together. I’ve tried to make Reordan follow me, but he hadn’t
sense enough to know what I wanted. So what can we do about it?”
“Nothing that I know of,” replied Jack. “So long as humans can’t
understand our language so well as we understand theirs, they will be
greatly hampered. It is a great misfortune.”
The bull-dog Boxer had listened with much interest to the stories of
the sparrow and the pigeon, occasionally licking his chops or shivering
slightly,—signs that he was deeply moved. As the Fire-Dog finished his
remark, he growled out,—
“Force them to it! That’s the only way!”
“But how?” asked the Fire-Dog. “That’s easier said than done. How would
you propose going to work?”
“Seize them by the trouser’s leg and _make_ them follow you.”
“And be taken for a mad dog,” remarked Jack.
“I shouldn’t care what they took me for,” replied Boxer, “so long as I
carried my point. If I once got a good grip, they’d follow.”
“Unless the trousers gave way,” remarked the Fire-Dog. “I’d bet on your
grip, Boxer. But, after all, that wouldn’t work, you know. We’ve got to
wait until the humans find out about it in their own slow way.”
A country wagon came by just then, and away fluttered the pigeons and
sparrows. Under the wagon trotted the large farm-dog who had told the
Fire-Dog about Toby.
“Any news of Toby?” he called out when he caught sight of the Fire-Dog.
“Not much. I know where he is, though. I’ve seen him.”
“You don’t say so? Well, why doesn’t he come home? He hasn’t gone back
on his old friends, has he? They say city life is kind of enticing. I
never had any desire to try it myself.”
“He has fallen into kind hands,” replied the Fire-Dog. “They are poor
people, but kind. I gave him your message, and he said he meant to
escape the first chance that offered. He may and then again he may not.
He struck me as kind of soft. Not a great deal of spirit, I should say.”
“You struck it right,” replied the farm-dog. “There isn’t a
better-meaning dog than Toby, but he isn’t very strong-minded.”
“From what I have heard about him, he must be a perfect fool,” growled
Boxer.
“Have you seen him?” inquired the farm-dog, bristling at once, for dogs
don’t like to have their friends insulted.
“No, and I don’t want to,” growled Boxer. “Hearing is bad enough, let
alone seeing.”
“Will you be kind enough to make that statement again?” asked the
farm-dog, marching up to the bull-dog with his legs and tail very
stiff, and a ridge of hair standing up straight on his back.
“As many times as you like,” replied the bull-dog, who had risen to his
feet and had begun to walk in a wide circle around the farm-dog.
“Now look here,” said the Fire-Dog, “fighting isn’t allowed on our
premises. If you want to fight, you must do it somewhere else. For my
part, I don’t see any occasion for fighting. I’ve led such a busy life
that I haven’t had any time to waste in that way, even if I had had the
inclination for it.”
“This is a question of honor,” replied the farm-dog, “and there is
only one way for dogs of spirit to settle it. Your friend there has
insulted a friend of mine, and unless he takes back his words we will
fight it out.”
“Take back my words?” growled Boxer. “What do you take me for?”
At this point a sudden and unexpected interruption came. The gong in
the engine-house struck sharply. The three grays came rushing out of
their stalls, and took their places in front of the engine. The harness
was let down from the pulleys that held it, and fastened into place.
The fire under the boiler was lighted, the driver was in his seat, the
men on the engine, and with a clatter of hoofs out they dashed, Jack
barking his maddest and bounding ahead in such excitement that all
other thoughts were driven out of his head.
As for the two dogs who a moment before were ready to engage in mortal
combat, they were so engrossed by the sudden interruption and the
excitement, that for the time everything else was forgotten. To the
farm-dog this was a novel sight, different from the way they did things
in his quiet town, and not a particle of the scene escaped him. The
bull-dog, with his natural pertinacity, was the first to return to
the subject of their late quarrel; but the farm-dog’s owner, who had
missed him, came back to hunt him up, and led him off, much to his
disappointment and the bull-dog’s also.
“Wait till the next time!” he snarled as he was led away.
“You’ll find me on hand!” growled Boxer.
Boxer was not usually so ill-natured as he appeared in this episode,
but it is true that he was of a peppery disposition, and not averse to
picking a quarrel. He would have given anything to have been a fire-dog
like Jack, and his disposition had become rather soured in consequence.
He was a steadfast friend, on the whole, and would have given his life,
if necessary, for his old friend Jack, whose good disposition made him
beloved of all.
So Boxer departed for home, thinking hard all the way, for he was a
conscientious dog in spite of his pugnacious temper, and, although he
would not have acknowledged it, he secretly wished that he had not been
so disagreeable to the farm-dog.
“What is the reason,” said Boxer to himself, “that when I so much
desire friends, I do the very thing to turn them against me? I suppose
it is because I was born so and can’t help it.”
If the farm-dog had seen the bull-dog on his return, playing with
his master’s little children, he would never have recognized him as
the same dog. They rolled over together on the floor, and no lap-dog
could have been gentler or more considerate than the bull-dog with his
massive jaws and grim expression. Thus it is with bull-dogs.