WE must not forget Toby, the little yellow dog with the black,
turned-up nose. We left him comfortable and happy in his new home.
The children grew fonder of him every day, and their mother found him
no trouble at all and a cheerful companion when her children were at
school. He was a quiet little fellow, and after the children had left
for school and the morning’s housework was done, the mother would take
up her sewing, while Toby would seat himself near by where he could
watch her as she sewed. Whenever she looked up and glanced toward him
he would wag his tail and smile in the way dogs smile. If she spoke to
him, how fast his tail would go, and he would almost lose his balance
on the chair, he wriggled so hard. The affectionate little dog had
not forgotten how kindly she had received him the night the children
brought him into the house, and he felt very grateful to her.
Then, when the children came home, what a rejoicing there was! Little
Toby always heard their steps on the stairs before the mother did. At
the first sound he would prick up his ears and move just the tip of his
tail, for he was not _quite_ sure if the steps he heard were really
those of the children. Then, as the steps came nearer and he felt a
little more certain, his tail moved a little faster; and at last, when
there was no longer any doubt, his tail wagged as fast as he could make
it go, and he would run whining to the door. How he did wriggle his
little body as he jumped on them and tried hard to tell them how glad
he was to see them!
Then Johnny, and usually the two girls also, would take him out for
a run before supper. It was not like the runs he used to have in the
fields in his country home, but it was very pleasant after being pent
up in those small rooms.
The most unpleasant part of this new life was the fact that great care
had to be taken in order to keep him out of the way of the father of
the family, who did not like dogs. Whenever the children heard their
father’s step on the stairs, they always caught Toby up and whisked him
into Johnny’s little dark room, where he had to stay, as still as a
mouse, so long as the father was in the house. This was easily enough
done at night, but in the daytime it was pretty hard for the active
little dog to stay quietly in the dark room where there was not even a
window to look out of.
The father of the family, who didn’t like dogs, was just the kind of
man whom dogs didn’t like any better than he did them. Somehow or other
he always found dogs to be in his way. If a dog happened to be taking
a nap on the floor or on the sidewalk, instead of stepping to one side
so as not to disturb him, he always growled, “It is strange dogs
always manage to lie just where they are most in the way.” Or if a dog
barked to let people know somebody was coming, he would exclaim, “What
a nuisance that dog is with his barking!” In fact, whatever a dog does
is considered to be the wrong thing by such people, so it is no wonder
that dogs are not fond of them.
Toby had seen the father through a crack of the door and had heard his
voice, and he understood just what kind of a man he was, and that it
would be safer for him to keep out of his way.
Things went on in this way for almost a week, Toby being always hustled
out of sight so soon as the father’s step was heard on the stairs. At
last, however, Toby forgot all prudence and betrayed himself.
It was a clear, cold night, and Toby had been taken out by Johnny for a
run. The air was so crisp and cold that it was just right for a smart
run, and the boy and dog returned with sharp appetites for supper.
Toby’s keen little turned-up nose smelt the savory fumes of sausage
long before they reached the top story, and he knew that a portion
of it would be his—it would be mixed with bread and moistened with
hot water and perhaps a little gravy, but Toby knew just how good it
would taste. His sense of smell had not deceived him; as they entered
the kitchen, there were the sausages still sizzling on the stove and
smelling better even than they had at a distance.
“You shall have your share when we are through, little fellow,” said
the mother in her kind voice; and Toby knew she would keep her promise,
even if she went without any herself.
The table was set, the sausages dished, and the family seated around
the table, while Toby watched them with greedy eyes and watering mouth.
Suddenly the mother exclaimed,—
“There is Father coming! Run and put the dog out of sight, Johnny; he
mustn’t be bothered by him.”
So Johnny caught Toby up in his arms and hustled him off into his dark
room. He couldn’t bear to leave the little fellow alone in the dark;
so he left the door just ajar, that a crack of light might enter to
comfort him.
Toby had heard the step and recognized it long before the mother had,
but he didn’t want to leave those tempting sausages. They didn’t come
his way every day.
“Father is tired to-night,” said the mother in a low tone to the
children, “so you must be very good and quiet.”
The children knew by experience that when Father was tired he was
always cross and easily irritated. Mother was often tired, too, but it
did not make her cross, and the children learned to keep out of the way
as much as possible when Father came home “tired,” as he so often did.
There was never much conversation when Father was “tired,” and Toby
in his dark hiding-place could hear the rattling of dishes and could
smell the delicious odor of the sausages. Father had not been expected
so early, and Mother had bought a nice piece of steak for his supper,
but there was not time to cook it then, so the supply of sausages was
rather short. Each of the children, as was their custom since Toby had
been an inmate of the family, saved a little piece for him; but they
were very fond of sausages, and they did not have such luxuries very
often, so it really required no little sacrifice on their part. As for
Maysie, the piece she laid aside for Toby grew smaller and smaller as
she made up her mind to take just one more taste and then another. At
last it dwindled down to almost the size of a pea, and Maysie said to
herself,—
“It isn’t worth while to save such a little piece, it won’t be even a
taste;” so she ate that too.
The mother, however, seeing how small a portion the little dog was
likely to receive, ate very little of her portion.
At last the silence was broken by Maysie, who could never keep still
very long.
“There was a fire to-day right back of our schoolhouse, mother,” she
said, “and there were ever and ever so many engines there, and do you
mind the big black and white dog that came to our fire and found little
blind Billy? Well, he was there, too, and I patted him and he was very
kind to me.”
“He probably belonged to one of the engines,” replied Mother. “I have
heard that dogs sometimes do and that they go to fires whenever the
engine goes.”
“And a fine nuisance they must be, too!” muttered Father. “The men must
be fools to stand it. They always manage to get in the way when they
are least wanted.”
Now Toby from the next room had heard every word of the conversation.
When Maysie told about the black and white dog that belonged to one
of the fire-engines, Toby at once recalled the dog answering to that
description whom he had seen lying in front of the engine-house, and
who had taken such an interest in him. When he heard Father speaking of
him as a “nuisance,” it was too much for Toby, and, forgetting that he
was not to show himself, he darted through the partly opened door, and
boldly presenting himself before the startled family, declared that it
was not true, that the black and white engine-dog was _not_ a nuisance,
but a kind and obliging fellow!
“Where in the world did that dog come from?” demanded the father,
angrily. “How comes he to be snarling and growling around here?”
Although Toby was doing his best to defend the character of his friend
and was quite eloquent in dog language, it sounded to the ears of the
family like snarling and growling.
The children were too frightened to answer, and Mother undertook to
explain.
“It is a poor little lost dog the children found,” she said. “He was
half-starved and cold, and I let them take him in. He is a good little
fellow and doesn’t do any harm.”
“Doesn’t do any harm!” growled Father. “It is no harm, is it, to eat us
out of house and home, I suppose? I don’t work hard to feed lazy dogs,
let me tell you.”
“He eats very little,” said Mother, as she looked at poor Toby, who
stood shivering with fear as he heard the harsh tones of the father
of the family, and began to realize how imprudent he had been. “The
children each save a little from their portions, and it doesn’t cost
any more to keep him.”
“Turn him out!” ordered Father. “Here, you cur! you get out of this;”
and as he held the door open, out darted the little dog, expecting to
feel Father’s heavy boot as he went through.
Downstairs rushed poor Toby, so frightened it was a wonder he didn’t
fall headlong on his way. When he reached the street and felt the cold
night air, he stood still, uncertain where to go. The cold air had
seemed very pleasant to him when he had run races with Johnny, with the
prospect of a good supper and warm quarters before him; but now what
had he to look forward to? Roaming about the streets all night, hungry
and cold, was very different. The wind was sharp, and it blew through
Toby’s thin hair as he crouched on the steps of the tenement-house.
All at once he bethought him of the old shed where he had been tied
before the children had taken him into the house. It was cold and
cheerless, but better than nothing.
Toby groped his way to the shed, and sought the farther corner where
his bed had been made before. As he approached, a large rat started up.
Toby could hear him as he scurried away. There was a very little of the
straw left that the children had made his bed of; probably the rats had
carried the rest off to make their beds.
Toby sat down and tried to think what he had better do. He thought of
the warm, light kitchen from which he had been so cruelly driven, and
of the children crying to see him sent out into the cold. He recalled,
too, the kind and patient face of the mother of the family, and the
many kindnesses he had received at her hands.
“What a difference there is in people!” murmured poor Toby to himself,
as he thought of the kind reception he had met from the mother, and
then of the harsh voice that had sent him out into the cold night.
“Well, crying won’t mend matters,” said Toby to himself. “I’ll wait
until daylight, and then I’ll try my luck at finding my old home.”
He crouched upon the thin layer of straw which was all that protected
him from the cold floor of the shed. The bleak wind blew in through the
door, and forced its way through the large cracks in the sides of the
building, and Toby grew colder and colder. To stay there and perhaps
freeze to death some cold night was out of the question, and Toby made
up his mind that he would start out as soon as daylight dawned, and try
to find his way to the kind engine-dog who had been so good to him.
“If I were not so small that anybody could easily pick me up and carry
me off, I shouldn’t care so much; but I’m so small I shouldn’t stand
much chance.”
By and by Toby’s quick ears caught the sound of footsteps that he knew
were coming his way. “I thought she would hunt me up,” said Toby to
himself; “it is just like her.”
The steps came nearer and nearer, and at last, standing in the doorway
of the shed, he could see in the darkness the dim outlines of the form
of the children’s mother. “Doggy, Doggy!” she called softly, “are you
there?”
“Here I am!” answered Toby with a bark of joy, and with a bound he was
at her feet and trying to jump up and lick her hands.
“I have brought you something to eat, poor little fellow!” said the
kind woman, as she set a plate before him. It was the larger part of
her sausage that she had saved for him, mixed with bread and potato,
and it was warm. How good it did taste to the hungry little dog! and it
put warmth into his half-frozen little body, too.
The kind woman stayed for some time, petting the little dog and telling
him how sorry she was for him; and Toby tried hard in his dog’s way to
say that she need not feel so bad about it, and that he didn’t mind it
much, for he couldn’t bear to see her kind heart so touched. She had
brought a piece of an old woollen shawl with her, and before she left
she wrapped him up in it and told him she would bring him some dinner
the next day.
Then Toby was left alone once more, and the wind blew in at the open
door and through the wide cracks, and the rats scurried by him; but
Toby didn’t mind all this so much as he did before, because the warm
food had put warmth into his body and the kind words had warmed his
heart. He even fell asleep under the old woollen shawl, and when he
next opened his eyes the first rays of daylight were stealing in
through the doorway.
Toby started up at once, for he had intended to start even earlier
than this. As he passed to the street, he glanced up at the home from
which he had been driven. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of one of the
children or of the mother, but instead of that he heard on the stairs
the heavy tread of the father starting out to his work, and away sped
Toby without stopping to look behind him.
Jack the Fire-Dog was right in his estimate of Toby’s character. He was
not a dog of much strength of mind, and instead of hiding out of sight
until the man he so dreaded had passed, and then quietly making up his
mind which way he should go, as a stronger-minded dog would have done,
he rushed blindly along until he was out of breath. Then he stopped and
looked about him. Everything was new and strange to him. What should he
do?