As the Judge continued his walk down Main Street, he wished profoundly
that the butterfly (which exhibited no annoyance) had been of greater
bulk and more approachable; and it was the evil fortune of Joe's
mongrel to encounter him in the sinister humor of such a wish
unfulfilled. Respectability dwelt at Beaver Beach under the care of Mr.
Sheehan until his master should return; and Sheehan was kind; but the
small dog found the world lonely and time long without Joe. He had
grown more and more restless, and at last, this hot morning, having
managed to evade the eye of all concerned in his keeping, made off
unobtrusively, partly by swimming, and reaching the road, cantered into
town, his ears erect with anxiety. Bent upon reaching the familiar
office, he passed the grocery from the doorway of which the pimply
cheeked clerk had thrown a bad potato at him a month before. The same
clerk had just laid down the Tocsin as Respectability went by, and,
inspired to great deeds in behalf of justice and his native city, he
rushed to the door, lavishly seized, this time, a perfectly good
potato, and hurled it with a result which ecstasized him, for it took
the mongrel fairly aside the head, which it matched in size.
The luckless Respectability's purpose to reach Joe's stairway had been
entirely definite, but upon this violence he forgot it momentarily. It
is not easy to keep things in mind when one is violently smitten on
mouth, nose, cheek, eye, and ear by a missile large enough to strike
them simultaneously. Yelping and half blinded, he deflected to cross
Main Street. Judge Pike had elected to cross in the opposite
direction, and the two met in the middle of the street.
The encounter was miraculously fitted to the Judge's need: here was no
butterfly, but a solid body, light withal, a wet, muddy, and dusty
yellow dog, eminently kickable. The man was heavily built about the
legs, and the vigor of what he did may have been additionally inspired
by his recognition of the mongrel as Joe Louden's. The impact of his
toe upon the little runner's side was momentous, and the latter rose
into the air. The Judge hopped, as one hops who, unshod in the night,
discovers an unexpected chair. Let us be reconciled to his pain and
not reproach the gods with it,--for two of his unintending adversary's
ribs were cracked.
The dog, thus again deflected, retraced his tracks, shrieking
distractedly, and, by one of those ironical twists which Karma reserves
for the tails of the fated, dived for blind safety into the store
commanded by the ecstatic and inimical clerk. There were shouts; the
sleepy Square beginning to wake up: the boy who had mocked the
planing-mill got to his feet, calling upon his fellows; the bench
loafers strolled to the street; the aged men stirred and rose from
their chairs; faces appeared in the open windows of offices; sales
ladies and gentlemen came to the doorways of the trading-places; so
that when Respectability emerged from the grocery he had a notable
audience for the scene he enacted with a brass dinner-bell tied to his
tail.
Another potato, flung by the pimpled, uproarious, prodigal clerk, added
to the impetus of his flight. A shower of pebbles from the hands of
exhilarated boys dented the soft asphalt about him; the hideous clamor
of the pursuing bell increased as he turned the next corner, running
distractedly. The dead town had come to life, and its inhabitants
gladly risked the dangerous heat in the interests of sport, whereby it
was a merry chase the little dog led around the block, For thus some
destructive instinct drove him; he could not stop with the unappeasable
Terror clanging at his heels and the increasing crowd yelling in
pursuit; but he turned to the left at each corner, and thus came back
to pass Joe's stairway again, unable to pause there or anywhere, unable
to do anything except to continue his hapless flight, poor meteor.
Round the block he went once more, and still no chance at that empty
stairway where, perhaps, he thought, there might be succor and safety.
Blood was upon his side where Martin Pike's boot had crashed, foam and
blood hung upon his jaws and lolling tongue. He ran desperately,
keeping to the middle of the street, and, not howling, set himself
despairingly to outstrip the Terror. The mob, disdaining the sun
superbly, pursued as closely as it could, throwing bricks and rocks at
him, striking at him with clubs and sticks. Happy Fear, playing
"tic-tac-toe," right hand against left, in his cell, heard the uproar,
made out something of what was happening, and, though unaware that it
was a friend whose life was sought, discovered a similarity to his own
case, and prayed to his dim gods that the quarry might get away.
"MAD DOG!" they yelled. "MAD DOG!" And there were some who cried,
"JOE LOUDEN'S DOG!" that being equally as exciting and explanatory.
Three times round, and still the little fugitive maintained a lead. A
gray-helmeted policeman, a big fellow, had joined the pursuit. He had
children at home who might be playing in the street, and the thought of
what might happen to them if the mad dog should head that way resolved
him to be cool and steady. He was falling behind, so he stopped on the
corner, trusting that Respectability would come round again. He was
right, and the flying brownish thing streaked along Main Street,
passing the beloved stairway for the fourth time. The policeman lifted
his revolver, fired twice, missed once, but caught him with the second
shot in a forepaw, clipping off a fifth toe, one of the small claws
that grow above the foot and are always in trouble. This did not stop
him; but the policeman, afraid to risk another shot because of the
crowd, waited for him to come again; and many others, seeing the
hopeless circuit the mongrel followed, did likewise, armed with bricks
and clubs. Among them was the pimply clerk, who had been inspired to
commandeer a pitchfork from a hardware store.
When the fifth round came, Respectability's race was run. He turned
into Main Street at a broken speed, limping, parched, voiceless,
flecked with blood and foam, snapping feebly at the showering rocks,
but still indomitably a little ahead of the hunt. There was no yelp
left in him--he was too thoroughly winded for that,--but in his
brilliant and despairing eyes shone the agony of a cry louder than the
tongue of a dog could utter: "O master! O all the god I know! Where
are you in my mortal need?"
Now indeed he had a gauntlet to run; for the street was lined with
those who awaited him, while the pursuit grew closer behind. A number
of the hardiest stood squarely in his path, and he hesitated for a
second, which gave the opportunity for a surer aim, and many missiles
struck him. "Let him have it now, officer," said Eugene Bantry,
standing with Judge Pike at the policeman's elbow. "There's your
chance."
But before the revolver could be discharged, Respectability had begun
to run again, hobbling on three legs and dodging feebly. A heavy stone
struck him on the shoulder and he turned across the street, making for
the "National House" corner, where the joyful clerk brandished his
pitchfork. Going slowly, he almost touched the pimply one as he passed,
and the clerk, already rehearsing in his mind the honors which should
follow the brave stroke, raised the tines above the little dog's head
for the coup de grace. They did not descend, and the daring youth
failed of fame as the laurel almost embraced his brows. A hickory
walking-stick was thrust between his legs; and he, expecting to strike,
received a blow upon the temple sufficient for his present undoing and
bedazzlement. He went over backwards, and the pitchfork (not the thing
to hold poised on high when one is knocked down) fell with the force he
had intended for Respectability upon his own shin.
A train had pulled into the station, and a tired, travel-worn young
man, descending from a sleeper, walked rapidly up the street to learn
the occasion of what appeared to be a riot. When he was close enough
to understand its nature, he dropped his bag and came on at top speed,
shouting loudly to the battered mongrel, who tried with his remaining
strength to leap toward him through a cordon of kicking legs, while
Eugene Bantry again called to the policeman to fire.
"If he does, damn you, I'll kill him!" Joe saw the revolver raised; and
then, Eugene being in his way, he ran full-tilt into his stepbrother
with all his force, sending him to earth, and went on literally over
him as he lay prone upon the asphalt, that being the shortest way to
Respectability. The next instant the mongrel was in his master's arms
and weakly licking his hands.
But it was Eskew Arp who had saved the little dog; for it was his stick
which had tripped the clerk, and his hand which had struck him down.
All his bodily strength had departed in that effort, but he staggered
out into the street toward Joe.
"Joe Louden!" called the veteran, in a loud voice. "Joe Louden!" and
suddenly reeled. The Colonel and Squire Buckalew were making their way
toward him, but Joe, holding the dog to his breast with one arm, threw
the other about Eskew.
"It's a town--it's a town"--the old fellow flung himself free from the
supporting arm--"it's a town you couldn't even trust a yellow dog to!"
He sank back upon Joe's shoulder, speechless. An open carriage had
driven through the crowd, the colored driver urged by two ladies upon
the back seat, and Martin Pike saw it stop by the group in the middle
of the street where Joe stood, the wounded dog held to his breast by
one arm, the old man, white and half fainting, supported by the other.
Martin Pike saw this and more; he saw Ariel Tabor and his own daughter
leaning from the carriage, the arms of both pityingly extended to Joe
Louden and his two burdens, while the stunned and silly crowd stood
round them staring, clouds of dust settling down upon them through the
hot air.