Jack, the Fire Dog

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?

CHAPTER TENTH

THE more Toby tried to think out a plan for action, the more undecided he became, as is always the way with weak natures. The sun was now up, and the great city was stirring with life. Wagons from the outlying towns were coming into the city, shops were being opened, and sidewalks and front steps were being washed and swept. But in the midst of all this busy life not a soul had a thought for the poor little lost dog. One boy, carrying a can of milk, did stop to pat him, but he had no time to waste, and passed on.

“Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” moaned Toby, helplessly. “Such a big, big world, and no place for me!”

At the corner of a distant street he saw a group of dogs, all larger than he was. They seemed, by the sound of their voices, to be quarrelling, and Toby did not dare venture near them. He knew by experience that when dogs are in a quarrelsome state of mind they are on the lookout for some object upon which to vent their excitement, and it was more than likely that they would turn the current of this excitement upon him, a stranger in the city. City dogs, too, as a general thing, do not like dogs from the country.

While Toby looked, the voices grew louder and more angry, and Toby knew that the next move would be a general scrimmage, in which each dog would blindly fight with the one nearest him, or, what was worse still, all of them would attack one of the number. It is only the meanest kind of dogs who do that, but tramp-street dogs are apt to do it. “What if they should all fall upon me?” said timid little Toby; and without stopping to see more, off he set at full speed.

The streets were now broader, and there were dwelling-houses everywhere, instead of shops. Gradually the city was growing farther and farther away, and before long fields and groups of trees were seen. Toby turned into a broad avenue, and suddenly found himself in the country. Broad fields lay around him, and just beyond appeared forest trees. A pond, now frozen over, stood in one of the fields, and on it were groups of happy children skating or playing games. Toby had never heard of a park, and he wondered to see the roads so level and everything so trim and neat. He stopped to rest and watch the children on the ice. Soon the attention of the children was attracted to him.