GRIF LOSES A FRIEND.
"It's a rum go," Grif muttered to himself, as he wiped the tears from
his eyes, and groped his way down the dark stairs; "a very rum go. If
I was Ally, I should do as he told her. But she don't care for
herself, she don't. She's too good for him by ever so many chalks,
that's what she is!"
By this time Grif had reached the staircase which led to the cellar.
Crouching upon the floor, he listened with his ear to the ground.
"I can hear him," he said, in a pleasant voice, "he's a beatin' his
tail upon the ground, but he won't move till I call him. I don't
believe there's another dawg in Melbourne to come up to him. Jist
listen to him! He's a thinkin' to himself, How much longer will he be,
I wonder, afore he calls me! And he knows I'm a-talkin' of him; he
knows it as well as I do myself."
He listened again, and laughed quietly.
"If I was to mention that dawg's name," Grif said in a confidential
tone, as if he were addressing a companion, "he'd be here in a minute.
He would! It's wonderful how he knows! I've had him since he was a
pup, and afore he could open his eyes. It would be nice sleepin' down
in the cellar, but we can't do it, can we, old feller? We've got
somebody else to look after, haven't we? You, and me, and him, ain't
had a bit of supper, I'll bet. But we'll get somethin' to eat somehow,
you see if we don't."
Here the lad whistled softly, and the next instant a singularly ugly
dog was by his side, licking his face, and expressing satisfaction in
a quiet but demonstrative manner.
"Ain't you jolly warm, Rough!" whispered Grif, taking the dog in his
arms, and gathering warmth from it. "Good old Rough! Dear old Rough!"
The dog could only respond to its master's affection by action, but
that was sufficiently expressive for Grif, who buried his face in
Rough's neck, and patted its back, and showed in twenty little ways
that he understood and appreciated the faithfulness of his dumb
servant. After this interchange of affectionate sentiment, Grif and
his dog crept out of the house. It was raining hard, but the lad took
no further heed of the weather than was expressed by drooping his chin
upon his breast, and putting his hands into the ragged pockets of his
still more ragged trousers. Slouching along the walls as if he derived
some comfort from the contact, Grif walked into a wider street of the
city, and stopped at the entrance of a narrow passage, leading to a
room used as a casino. The dog, which had been anxiously sniffing the
gutters in quest of such stray morsels of food as had escaped the eyes
and noses of other ravenous dogs, stopped also, and looked up humbly
at its master.
"I'll stay here," said Grif, resting against the wall. "Milly's in
there, I dare say, and she'll give me somethin' when she comes out, if
she's got it."
Understanding by its master's action that no further movement was to
be made for the present, Rough sat upon its haunches in perfect
contentment, and contemplated the rain-drops falling on the ground.
Grif was hungry, but he had a stronger motive than that for waiting;
as he had said, he had some one besides himself to provide for, and
the girl he expected to see had often given him money. Strains of
music floated down the passage, and the effect of the sounds, combined
with his tired condition sent him into a half doze. He started now and
then, as persons passed and repassed him; but presently he slid to the
earth, and, throwing his arm over the dog's neck, fell into a sound
sleep. He slept for nearly an hour, when a hand upon his shoulder
roused him.
"What are you sleeping in the rain for?" a girl's voice asked.
"Is that you, Milly?" asked Grif, starting to his feet, and shaking
himself awake. "I was waitin' for you, and I was so tired that I fell
off. Rough didn't bark at you, did he, when you touched me?"
"Not he! He's too sensible," replied Milly, stooping, and caressing
the dog, who licked her hand. "He knows friends from enemies. A good
job if all of us did!"
There was a certain bitterness in the girl's voice which jarred upon
the ear, but Grif, probably too accustomed to hear it, did not notice
it. She was very handsome, fair, with regular features, white teeth,
and bright eyes; but her mouth was too small, and there was a want of
firmness in her lips. Take from her face a careworn, reckless
expression, which it was sorrowful to witness in a girl so young, and
it would have been one which a painter would have been pleased to gaze
upon.
"I have been looking for Jim," she said, "and I cannot find him."
"I sor him to-night," Grif said; "he was up at the house--him and
Black Sam and Ned Rutt, and the Tenderhearted Oysterman."
"A nice gang!" observed the girl. "And Jim's the worst of the lot."
"No, he isn't," said Grif; and as he said it, Milly looked almost
gratefully at him. "Rough knows who's the worst of that lot; don't
you, Rough?"
The dog looked up into its master's face, as if it perfectly well
understood the nature of the question.
"Is Black Sam the worst?" asked Grif.
The dog wagged its stump of a tail, but uttered no sound.
"Is Ned Rutt the worst?" asked Grif.
The dog repeated the performance.
"Is Jim Pizey the worst?" asked Grif.
Milly caught the lad's arm as he put the last question, and looked in
the face of the dog as if it were a sibyl about to answer her heart's
fear. But the dog wagged its tail, and was silent.
"Thank God!" Milly whispered to herself.
"Is the Tenderhearted Oysterman the worst?" asked Grif.
Whether Grif spoke that name in a different tone, or whether some
magnetic touch of hate passed from the master's heart to that of the
dog, no sooner did Rough hear it, than its short yellow hair bristled
up, and it gave vent to a savage growl.
A stealthy step passed at the back of them at this moment.
"For God's sake!" cried Milly, putting her hand upon Grif's mouth, and
then upon the dog's.
Grif looked at her, inquiringly.
"That was the Oysterman who passed us," said Milly, with a pale face.
"I hope he didn't hear you."
"I don't care if he did. It can't make any difference between us. He
hates me and Rough, and Rough and me hates him; don't we?"
Rough gave a sympathetic growl.
"And so you were up at the house, eh, Grif?" said Milly, as if anxious
to change the subject. "What were you doing all the night?"
"I was sittin' with--"
But ignorant as Grif was, he hesitated here. He knew full well the
difference between the two women who were kind to him. He knew that
one was what he would have termed "respectable," and the other
belonged to society's outcasts. And he hesitated to bring the two
together, even in his speech.
"You were sitting with--?" Milly said.
"No one particler," Grif wound up, shortly.
"But I should like to know, and you _must_ tell me, Grif."
"Well, if I must tell you, it was with Ally I was sittin'. You never
seed her."
"No, I've never seen her," said Milly, scornfully. "I've heard of her,
though. She's a lady, isn't she?"
"Yes, she is."
Milly turned away her head and was silent for a few moments; then she
said,
"Yes, she's a lady, and I'm not good enough to be to about her. But
she isn't prettier than me for all that; she isn't so pretty; I've
been told so. She hasn't got finer eyes than me, and she hasn't got
smaller hands than me;" and Milly held out hers, proudly--a beautiful
little hand--"nor smaller feet, I know, though I've never seen them.
And yet she's a lady!"
"Yes, she is."
"And I am not. Of course not. Well, I shall go. Good-night."
"Good-night, Milly," Grif said, in a conflict of agitation. For he
knew that he had hurt Milly's feelings, and he was remorseful. He knew
that he was right in saying that Alice was a lady, and in inferring
that Milly was not; yet he could not have defined why he was right,
and he was perplexed. Then he was hungry, and Milly had gone without
giving him any money, and he knew that she was angry with him. And he
was angry with himself for making her angry.
While he was enduring this conflict of miserable feeling, Milly came
back to him. Grif was almost ashamed to look her in the face.
"She isn't prettier than me?" the girl said, as if she desired to be
certain upon the point.
"I didn't say she was," Grif responded, swinging one foot upon the
pavement.
"And she hasn't got smaller hands than me?"
"I didn't say she had, Milly."
"Nor smaller feet?"
"Nobody said so."
"Nor brighter eyes, nor a nicer figure? And yet," Milly said, with a
kind of struggle in her voice, "and yet she's a lady, and I'm not."
"Don't be angry with me, Milly," Grif pleaded, as if with him rested
the responsibility of the difference between the two women.
"Why should I be angry with you?" asked Milly, her voice hardening.
"It's not your fault. I often wonder if it is mine! It's hard to tell;
isn't it?"
Grif, not understanding the drift of the question, could not
conscientiously answer; yet, feeling himself called upon to express
some opinion, he nodded his head acquiescently.
"Never mind," said Milly; "it will be all the same in a hundred years!
Have you had anything to eat to-night, Grif?"
Grif felt even more remorseful, for, after what had passed, Milly's
question, kindly put, was like a dagger's thrust to him.
"Well, here's a shilling for you--it's the only one I've got, and
you're welcome to it. Perhaps the lady would give you her last
shilling! Any lady would, of course--that's the way of ladies! Why
don't you take the shilling?"
"I don't want it," said Grif, gently, turning aside.
Milly placed her hand on the boy's head, and turned his face to hers.
She could see the tears struggling to his eyes.
"Don't be a stupid boy," Milly said; "I have only been joking with
you. I don't mean half I said; I never do. Though she's a lady, and
I'm not, I'd do as much for you as she would, if I was able." And,
forcing the shilling into his hand, the girl walked quickly away.
Grif looked after her until she was out of sight, and shaking his
head, as if he had a problem in it which he could not solve, made
straight for a coffee-stall where pies were sold, and invested his
shilling. Carrying his investment carefully in his cap, which he
closed like a bag, so that the rain should not get to the pies, Grif,
with Rough at his heels, dived into the poorer part of the city, and
threaded his way among a very labyrinth of deformed streets. The rain
poured steadily down upon him, and soaked him through and through, but
his utter disregard of the discomfort of the situation showed how
thoroughly he was used to it. Grif was wending his way to bed; and
lest any misconception should arise upon this point, it may be as well
to mention at once that the bed was a barrel, which lay in the rear of
a shabby house. Not long since the barrel had been tenanted by a dog,
whose master had lived in the shabby house. But, happily, master and
dog had shifted quarters, and the barrel becoming tenantless, Grif
took possession without inquiring for the landlord. Whereby he clearly
laid himself open to an action for ejectment. And Grif was not the
only tenant, for when he arrived at his sleeping-place, he stooped,
and putting his head into the barrel, withdrew it again, and said,
"Yes; there he is!" the utterance of which common-place remark
appeared to afford him much satisfaction. Grif's action had disturbed
the occupant of the barrel, who had evidently been sleeping, and he
presently appeared, rubbing his eyes.
Such a strange little tenant! Such a white-faced, thin-faced,
haggard-faced, little tenant! Such a large-eyed, wistful-eyed, little
tenant! In truth, a small boy, a very baby-boy, who might have been an
infant, or who might have been an old man whom hunger had pinched,
whom misery had shaken hands and been most familiar with. He gazed at
Grif with his large eyes and smiled sleepily, and then catching sight
of Grif's cap with the pies in it, rubbed his little hands gladly, and
was wide-awake in an instant.
"You haven't had nothin' to eat to-night, I'll bet," said Grif.
The little fellow's lips formed themselves into a half-whispered No.
Grif insinuated his body into the barrel, and stretched himself full
length by the side of the baby-boy. Then he slightly raised himself,
and, resting his chin upon his hand, took a pie from his cap, and gave
it to his companion. The boy seized it eagerly, and bit into it,
without uttering a word.
"You haven't got me to thank for it, Little Peter," Grif said. "It's
Milly you have got to thank. Say, thank you, Milly."
"Thank you, Milly," said Little Peter obediently, devouring his pie.
There was another pie in the cap, but hungry as Grif was he did not
touch it. He looked at Little Peter, munching, and then at his dog,
who had crept to the mouth of the barrel, and who was eyeing the pie
wistfully. Had the dog known that its master was hungry, it would not
have looked at the pie as if it wanted it.
"_You've_ had precious little to eat to-night, too," said Grif to
Rough, who wagged its tail as its master spoke. "We'll have it between
us." And he broke the pie in two pieces.
He was about to give one piece of it to Rough, when he heard a
cat-like step within a few yards of him. "Who's there?" he cried,
creeping partly out of the barrel. No answer came, but the dog gave a
savage growl, and darted forwards. Grif listened, but heard nothing
but a faint laugh.
"I know that laugh, that's the Tenderhearted Oysterman's laugh. What
can he want here? Rough! Rough!" The dog came back at the call, with a
piece of meat in its mouth, which it was swallowing ravenously. "Well,
if this isn't a puzzler, I don't know what is," observed Grif. "Where
did you got that from? You're in luck's way to-night, you are, Rough.
All the better for Little Peter! Here, Little Peter, here's some more
pie for you."
Little Peter took the dog's share of the pie without compunction, and
expeditiously disposed of it. He then stretched himself on his face,
and was soon fast asleep again. Grif, having eaten his half of the
pie, coiled himself up, and prepared for sleep. No fear of rheumatism
assailed him; it was no new thing for him to sleep in wet clothes. He
was thankful enough for the shelter, poor as it was, and did not
repine because he did not have a more comfortable bed. He was very
tired, but the remembrance of the events of the day kept him dozing
for a little while. Alice, and her husband, and Milly, presented
themselves to his imagination in all sorts of confused ways. The story
he had heard Alice's husband tell of how their marriage came about was
also strong upon him, and he saw Alice and Richard standing in the
soft moonlight on her father's station. "I wonder what sort of a cove
her father is!" Grif thought, as he lay between sleeping and waking.
"He must be a nice 'ard-'earted bloke, he must? I wish I was her
father; I'd soon make her all right!" Then he heard Milly say, "She
hasn't got smaller hands than me!" and Milly's hands and Alice's hands
laid themselves before him, and he was looking to see which were the
smaller. Gradually, however, these fancies became indistinct, and
sleep fell upon him; but only to deepen them, to render them more
powerful. They were no longer fancies, they were realities. He was
crouching in a corner of the room, while Richard was speaking to
Alice; he was groping down the stairs, and calling for Rough, and
fondling him; he was standing at the entrance of the narrow passage,
waiting for Milly, and he was sleeping, with his arm embracing his
dog; he was talking to Milly, and asking Rough who was the worst of
all Jim Pizey's lot? he was listening to the Tenderhearted Oysterman's
retreating footsteps; and he was standing at the pie-stall, spending
Milly's last shilling. But here a new feature introduced itself into
the running commentary of his dreams. He fancied that, after he and
Little Peter had eaten the pies, the Tenderhearted Oysterman came
suddenly behind Rough, and, seizing the dog by the throat, thrust it
into a small box, the lid of which he clapped down and fastened; that
then the Oysterman forced the box into the barrel, and so fixed it
upon Grif s chest that the lad could not move; and that, although he
heard the dog moan and scratch, he could not release it. The weight
upon Grif's chest grew heavier and heavier; it was forcing the breath
out of his body. In his sleep he gasped, and fought release himself.
And after a violent struggle, he awoke.
There _was_ something lying upon his chest. It was Rough, who had
crawled into the barrel, and was licking its master's face. It had
been whining, but directly it felt Grif's hand, it grew quiet. The
rain was falling heavily, and the drops were forcing themselves
through the roof of the barrel. Grif shifted the dog gently on one
side.
"There's 'ardly room enough for two, let alone three of us," Grif
muttered. "Little Peter, are you awake?" The soft breathing of Peter
was the only reply. "You've no right to come shovin' yourself in,"
continued Grif, addressing the dog, who gave utterance to a pleading
moan; "but I ain't goin' to turn you out. What a night it is! And how
wet the barrel is! It would be much nicer if it was dry. It's almost
as bad as a gutter?" Here came a long-drawn sigh from Rough, and then
a piteous moan, as if the dog were in pain. "Be quiet Rough! What's
the use of botherin' about the rain!" exclaimed the boy. "There'll be
a flood in Melbourne, if this goes on!" And drawing his limbs closer
together, Grif disposed himself for sleep. He was almost on the
boundary of the land of dreams, when a yelp of agony from Rough
aroused him again, and caused him to start and knock his head against
the roof of the barrel. "Blest if I don't think somethin's the matter
with the dawg!" he exclaimed. "What are you yelpin' for, Rough?" The
dog uttered another sharp cry of agony, and trembled, and stretched
its limbs in convulsion. Thoroughly alarmed, Grif corkscrewed his way
out of the barrel as quietly as he could for fear of waking little
Peter, and called for Rough to follow him. Rough strove to obey its
master's voice even in the midst of its pain, but it had not strength.
"Rough! Rough!" cried Grif, drawing the dog out of the barrel. "What's
the matter, Rough? Are you hurt?" He felt all over its body, but could
discover nothing to account for Rough's distress. He took his faithful
servant in his arms, and looked at it by the dim light of the weeping
stars. Rough opened its eyes and looked gratefully at Grif, who
pressed the dog to his breast, and strove to control the violent
shuddering of its limbs; but its agony was too powerful. It rolled out
of Grif's arms on to the ground, where it lay motionless.
Cold and wet and shivering as he was, a deeper chill struck upon
Grif's heart as he gazed at the quiet form at his feet. He called the
dog by name, but it did not respond; he walked away a few steps and
whistled, but it did not follow; he came back, and stooping, patted it
upon its head, but it did not move; he whispered to it, "Rough! poor
old Rough! dear old Rough! speak to me, Rough!" but the dog uttered no
sound. Then Grif sitting down, took Rough in his arms, and began to
cry. Quietly and softly at first.
"What did Ally arks me to-night?" he half thought and half spoke
between his sobs. "Did I ever have a friend that I would sacrifice
myself for? Yes! I would for Rough! There wasn't another dawg in
Melbourne to come up to him! And now he's gone, and I ain't got no
friend left but Ally." And he laid his face upon the dog's wet coat,
and rained warm tears upon it.
"After all the games we've had together!" he continued. "After the
times he's stood up for me! He'll never stand up for me agin--never
agin!"
He knew that the dog was dead, and his anguish at the loss of his
dumb, faithful friend was very keen. Had it been human, he could not
have felt a deeper affliction.
"Everybody liked Rough! And he never had a growl for no one who spoke
kind to him. Everybody liked him--everybody except the Tenderhearted
Oysterman. The Tenderhearted Oysterman!" he cried, jumping to his feet
as if an inspiration had fallen upon him. "Why, it was him as swore he
would murder Rough! It was him as passed to-night when I was goin' to
give Rough the pie! It was him as give Rough the piece of meat! The
piece of meat! It was pizened! He swore he'd kill him, and he's done
it! That's what I heerd him laughin' at."
Grif wiped the tears from his eyes with the cuff of his ragged jacket,
and clenched his teeth.
"He's pizened Rough, has he?" he muttered, gloomily; and raising his
hand to the dark sky, he said, "If ever I can be even with him for
killin' my dawg, I will, so 'elp me--"
This time there was no one by to check the oath, and he uttered it
savagely and emphatically. Then he put his head in the barrel, and
shook Little Peter awake.
"Peter," he said, "Rough's dead. Ain't you sorry?"
"Yes," said Little Peter, without any show of feeling.
"He's been pizened. The Tenderhearted Oysterman's pizened him. Say
Damn him!"
"Damn him!" Little Peter said, readily.
"I'm going to bury him," said Grif. "Git up and come along with me."
Very obediently, but very sleepily, Little Peter came out of bed. Grif
looked about him, picked up a piece of rusty iron, and taking Rough in
his arms, walked away, and Little Peter, rubbing his eyes, trudged
sometimes behind and sometimes at Grif's side. Now and then the little
fellow placed his hand half carelessly and half caressingly upon
Rough's head, and now and then Grif stopped and kissed his dead
servant. In this way, slouching through the miserable streets, the
rain pouring heavily down, the funeral procession reached a large
burial-ground. The gates were closed, but they got in over a low wall
at the back. Everything about him was very solemn, very mournful, and
very dreary. The night was so dark that they could scarcely see, and
they stumbled over many a little mound of earth as they crept along.
"This'll do," said Grif, stopping at a spot where a tangle of grass
leaves were soiling their crowns in the muddy earth.
With the piece of iron he soon scraped a hole large enough for the
body. Some notion that he was performing a sacred duty which demanded
sacred observances was upon him.
"Take off your cap," he said to Little Peter.
Little Peter pulled off his cap; Grif did so likewise; and the rain
pattered down upon their bare heads. They stood so for a little while
in silence.
"Ashes to ashes!" Grif said, placing the body in the hole, and piling
the earth over it. He had followed many funerals to the churchyard,
and had heard the ministers speak those words.
"Good-bye, Rough!" murmured Grif, with a sob of grief. "Dear old
Rough! Poor old Rough!"
And then the two outcasts crept back again, through the dreary
streets, to their bed in the barrel.