The next morning the benevolent physician found the two dogs,
beaming with gratitude, waiting at his door, and with them two other
dogs-cripples. The cripples were speedily healed, and the four went
their way, leaving the benevolent physician more overcome by pious
wonder than ever. The day passed, the morning came. There at the door
sat now the four reconstructed dogs, and with them four others requiring
reconstruction. This day also passed, and another morning came; and now
sixteen dogs, eight of them newly crippled, occupied the sidewalk, and
the people were going around. By noon the broken legs were all set, but
the pious wonder in the good physician's breast was beginning to get
mixed with involuntary profanity. The sun rose once more, and exhibited
thirty-two dogs, sixteen of them with broken legs, occupying the
sidewalk and half of the street; the human spectators took up the rest
of the room. The cries of the wounded, the songs of the healed brutes,
and the comments of the onlooking citizens made great and inspiring
cheer, but traffic was interrupted in that street. The good physician
hired a couple of assistant surgeons and got through his benevolent
work before dark, first taking the precaution to cancel his
church membership, so that he might express himself with the latitude
which the case required.
But some things have their limits. When once more the morning dawned,
and the good physician looked out upon a massed and far-reaching
multitude of clamorous and beseeching dogs, he said, “I might as well
acknowledge it, I have been fooled by the books; they only tell the
pretty part of the story, and then stop. Fetch me the shotgun; this
thing has gone along far enough.”
He issued forth with his weapon, and chanced to step upon the tail of
the original poodle, who promptly bit him in the leg. Now the great and
good work which this poodle had been engaged in had engendered in him
such a mighty and augmenting enthusiasm as to turn his weak head at last
and drive him mad. A month later, when the benevolent physician lay in
the death-throes of hydrophobia, he called his weeping friends about
him, and said:--
“Beware of the books. They tell but half of the story. Whenever a poor
wretch asks you for help, and you feel a doubt as to what result may
flow from your benevolence, give yourself the benefit of the doubt and
kill the applicant.”
And so saying he turned his face to the wall and gave up the ghost.