Books: Ranson\'s Folly
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Richard Harding Davis >> Ranson\'s Folly
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"That will do," I said, for I understood then without his telling me,
and I got up and walked away, holding my head and tail high in the
air.
But I was, oh, so miserable, and I wanted to see mother that very
minute, and tell her that I didn't care.
Mother is what I am, a street-dog; there's no royal blood in mother's
veins, nor is she like that father of mine, nor--and that's the
worst--she's not even like me. For while I, when I'm washed for a
fight, am as white as clean snow, she--and this is our trouble, she--
my mother, is a black-and-tan.
When mother hid herself from me, I was twelve months old and able to
take care of myself, and, as after mother left me, the wharves were
never the same, I moved uptown and met the Master. Before he came,
lots of other men-folks had tried to make up to me, and to whistle me
home. But they either tried patting me or coaxing me with a piece of
meat; so I didn't take to 'em. But one day the Master pulled me out
of a street-fight by the hind-legs, and kicked me good.
"You want to fight, do you?" says he. "I'll give you all the FIGHTING
you want!" he says, and he kicks me again. So I knew he was my
Master, and I followed him home. Since that day I've pulled off many
fights for him, and they've brought dogs from all over the province
to have a go at me, but up to that night none, under thirty pounds,
had ever downed me.
But that night, so soon as they carried me into the ring, I saw the
dog was over-weight, and that I was no match for him. It was asking
too much of a puppy. The Master should have known I couldn't do it.
Not that I mean to blame the Master, for when sober, which he
sometimes was, though not, as you might say, his habit, he was most
kind to me, and let me out to find food, if I could get it, and only
kicked me when I didn't pick him up at night and lead him home.
But kicks will stiffen the muscles, and starving a dog so as to get
him ugly-tempered for a fight may make him nasty, but it's weakening
to his insides, and it causes the legs to wabble.
The ring was in a hall, back of a public-house. There was a red-hot
whitewashed stove in one corner, and the ring in the other. I lay in
the Master's lap, wrapped in my blanket, and, spite of the stove,
shivering awful; but I always shiver before a fight; I can't help
gettin' excited. While the men-folks were a-flashing their money and
taking their last drink at the bar, a little Irish groom in gaiters
came up to me and give me the back of his hand to smell, and
scratched me behind the ears.
"You poor little pup," says he. "You haven't no show," he says. "That
brute in the tap-room, he'll eat your heart out."
"That's what you think," says the Master, snarling. "I'll lay you a
quid the Kid chews him up."
The groom, he shook his head, but kept looking at me so sorry-like,
that I begun to get a bit sad myself. He seemed like he couldn't bear
to leave off a-patting of me, and he says, speaking low just like he
would to a man-folk, "Well, good-luck to you, little pup," which I
thought so civil of him, that I reached up and licked his hand. I
don't do that to many men. And the Master, he knew I didn't, and took
on dreadful.
"What 'ave you got on the back of your hand?" says he, jumping up.
"Soap!" says the groom, quick as a rat. "That's more than you've got
on yours. Do you want to smell of it?" and he sticks his fist under
the Master's nose. But the pals pushed in between 'em.
"He tried to poison the Kid!" shouts the Master.
"Oh, one fight at a time," says the referee. "Get into the ring,
Jerry. We're waiting." So we went into the ring.
I never could just remember what did happen in that ring. He give me
no time to spring. He fell on me like a horse. I couldn't keep my
feet against him, and though, as I saw, he could get his hold when he
liked, he wanted to chew me over a bit first. I was wondering if
they'd be able to pry him off me, when, in the third round, he took
his hold; and I began to drown, just as I did when I fell into the
river off the Red C slip. He closed deeper and deeper, on my throat,
and everything went black and red and bursting; and then, when I were
sure I were dead, the handlers pulled him off, and the Master give me
a kick that brought me to. But I couldn't move none, or even wink,
both eyes being shut with lumps.
"He's a cur!" yells the Master, "a sneaking, cowardly cur. He lost
the fight for me," says he, "because he's a---------cowardly cur."
And he kicks me again in the lower ribs, so that I go sliding across
the sawdust. "There's gratitude fer yer," yells the Master. "I've fed
that dog, and nussed that dog, and housed him like a prince; and now
he puts his tail between his legs, and sells me out, he does. He's a
coward; I've done with him, I am. I'd sell him for a pipeful of
tobacco." He picked me up by the tail, and swung me for the men-folks
to see. "Does any gentleman here want to buy a dog," he says, "to
make into sausage-meat?" he says. "That's all he's good for."
Then I heard the little Irish groom say, "I'll give you ten bob for
the dog."
And another voice says, "Ah, don't you do it; the dog's same as dead-
-mebby he is dead."
"Ten shillings!" says the Master, and his voice sobers a bit; "make
it two pounds, and he's yours."
But the pals rushed in again.
"Don't you be a fool, Jerry," they say. "You'll be sorry for this
when you're sober. The Kid's worth a fiver."
One of my eyes was not so swelled up as the other, and as I hung by
my tail, I opened it, and saw one of the pals take the groom by the
shoulder.
"You ought to give 'im five pounds for that dog, mate," he says;
"that's no ordinary dog. That dog's got good blood in him, that dog
has. Why, his father--that very dog's father--"
I thought he never would go on. He waited like he wanted to be sure
the groom was listening.
"That very dog's father," says the pal, "is Regent Royal, son of
Champion Regent Monarch, champion bull-terrier of England for four
years."
I was sore, and torn, and chewed most awful, but what the pal said
sounded so fine that I wanted to wag my tail, only couldn't, owing to
my hanging from it.
But the Master calls out, "Yes, his father was Regent Royal; who's
saying he wasn't? but the pup's a cowardly cur, that's what his pup
is, and why--I'll tell you why--because his mother was a black-and-
tan street-dog, that's why!"
I don't see how I get the strength, but some way I threw myself out
of the Master's grip and fell at his feet, and turned over and
fastened all my teeth in his ankle, just across the bone.
When I woke, after the pals had kicked me off him, I was in the
smoking-car of a railroad-train, lying in the lap of the little
groom, and he was rubbing my open wounds with a greasy, yellow stuff,
exquisite to the smell, and most agreeable to lick off.
PART II
"Well--what's your name--Nolan? Well, Nolan, these references are
satisfactory," said the young gentleman my new Master called "Mr.
Wyndham, sir." "I'll take you on as second man. You can begin to-
day."
My new Master shuffled his feet, and put his finger to his forehead.
"Thank you, sir," says he. Then he choked like he had swallowed a
fish-bone. "I have a little dawg, sir," says he.
"You can't keep him," says "Mr. Wyndham, sir," very short.
"'Es only a puppy, sir," says my new Master; "'e wouldn't go outside
the stables, sir."
"It's not that," says "Mr. Wyndham, sir;" "I have a large kennel of
very fine dogs; they're the best of their breed in America. I don't
allow strange dogs on the premises."
The Master shakes his head, and motions me with his cap, and I crept
out from behind the door. "I'm sorry, sir," says the Master. "Then I
can't take the place. I can't get along without the dog, sir."
"Mr. Wyndham, sir," looked at me that fierce that I guessed he was
going to whip me, so I turned over on my back and begged with my legs
and tail.
"Why, you beat him!" says "Mr. Wyndham, sir," very stern.
"No fear!" the Master says, getting very red. "The party I bought him
off taught him that. He never learnt that from me!" He picked me up
in his arms, and to show "Mr. Wyndham, sir," how well I loved the
Master, I bit his chin and hands.
"Mr. Wyndham, sir," turned over the letters the Master had given him.
"Well, these references certainly are very strong," he says. "I guess
I'll let the dog stay this time. Only see you keep him away from the
kennels--or you'll both go."
"Thank you, sir," says the Master, grinning like a cat when she's
safe behind the area-railing.
"He's not a bad bull-terrier," says "Mr. Wyndham, sir," feeling my
head. "Not that I know much about the smooth-coated breeds. My dogs
are St. Bernards." He stopped patting me and held up my nose. "What's
the matter with his ears?" he says. "They're chewed to pieces. Is
this a fighting dog?" he asks, quick and rough-like.
I could have laughed. If he hadn't been holding my nose, I certainly
would have had a good grin at him. Me, the best under thirty pounds
in the Province of Quebec, and him asking if I was a fighting dog! I
ran to the Master and hung down my head modest-like, waiting for him
to tell my list of battles, but the Master he coughs in his cap most
painful. "Fightin' dog, sir," he cries. "Lor' bless you, sir, the Kid
don't know the word. 'Es just a puppy, sir, same as you see; a pet
dog, so to speak. 'Es a regular old lady's lap-dog, the Kid is."
"Well, you keep him away from my St. Bernards," says "Mr. Wyndham,
sir," "or they might make a mouthful of him."
"Yes, sir, that they might," says the Master. But when we gets
outside he slaps his knee and laughs inside hisself, and winks at me
most sociable.
The Master's new home was in the country, in a province they called
Long Island. There was a high stone wall about his home with big iron
gates to it, same as Godfrey's brewery; and there was a house with
five red roofs, and the stables, where I lived, was cleaner than the
aerated bakery-shop, and then there was the kennels, but they was
like nothing else in this world that ever I see. For the first days I
couldn't sleep of nights for fear someone would catch me lying in
such a cleaned-up place, and would chase me out of it, and when I did
fall to sleep I'd dream I was back in the old Master's attic,
shivering under the rusty stove, which never had no coals in it, with
the Master flat on his back on the cold floor with his clothes on.
And I'd wake up, scared and whimpering, and find myself on the new
Master's cot with his hand on the quilt beside me; and I'd see the
glow of the big stove, and hear the high-quality horses below-stairs
stamping in their straw-lined boxes, and I'd snoop the sweet smell of
hay and harness-soap, and go to sleep again.
The stables was my jail, so the Master said, but I don't ask no
better home than that jail.
"Now, Kid," says he, sitting on the top of a bucket upside down,
"you've got to understand this. When I whistle it means you're not to
go out of this 'ere yard. These stables is your jail. And if you
leave 'em I'll have to leave 'em, too, and over the seas, in the
County Mayo, an old mother will 'ave to leave her bit of a cottage.
For two pounds I must be sending her every month, or she'll have
naught to eat, nor no thatch over 'er head; so, I can't lose my
place, Kid, an' see you don't lose it for me. You must keep away from
the kennels," says he; "they're not for the likes of you. The kennels
are for the quality. I wouldn't take a litter of them woolly dogs for
one wag of your tail, Kid, but for all that they are your betters,
same as the gentry up in the big house are my betters. I know my
place and keep away from the gentry, and you keep away from the
Champions."
So I never goes out of the stables. All day I just lay in the sun on
the stone flags, licking my jaws, and watching the grooms wash down
the carriages, and the only care I had was to see they didn't get gay
and turn the hose on me. There wasn't even a single rat to plague me.
Such stables I never did see.
"Nolan," says the head-groom, "some day that dog of yours will give
you the slip. You can't keep a street-dog tied up all his life. It's
against his natur'." The head-groom is a nice old gentleman, but he
doesn't know everything. Just as though I'd been a street-dog because
I liked it. As if I'd rather poke for my vittles in ash-heaps than
have 'em handed me in a wash-basin, and would sooner bite and fight
than be polite and sociable. If I'd had mother there I couldn't have
asked for nothing more. But I'd think of her snooping in the gutters,
or freezing of nights under the bridges, or, what's worse of all,
running through the hot streets with her tongue down, so wild and
crazy for a drink, that the people would shout "mad dog" at her, and
stone her. Water's so good, that I don't blame the men-folks for
locking it up inside their houses, but when the hot days come, I
think they might remember that those are the dog-days and leave a
little water outside in a trough, like they do for the horses. Then
we wouldn't go mad, and the policemen wouldn't shoot us. I had so
much of everything I wanted that it made me think a lot of the days
when I hadn't nothing, and if I could have given what I had to
mother, as she used to share with me, I'd have been the happiest dog
in the land. Not that I wasn't happy then, and most grateful to the
Master, too, and if I'd only minded him, the trouble wouldn't have
come again.
But one day the coachman says that the little lady they called Miss
Dorothy had come back from school, and that same morning she runs
over to the stables to pat her ponies, and she sees me.
"Oh, what a nice little, white little dog," said she; "whose little
dog are you?" says she.
"That's my dog, miss," says the Master. "'Is name is Kid," and I ran
up to her most polite, and licks her fingers, for I never see so
pretty and kind a lady.
"You must come with me and call on my new puppies," says she, picking
me up in her arms and starting off with me.
"Oh, but please, Miss," cries Nolan, "Mr. Wyndham give orders that
the Kid's not to go to the kennels."
"That'll be all right," says the little lady; "they're my kennels
too. And the puppies will like to play with him."
You wouldn't believe me if I was to tell you of the style of them
quality-dogs. If I hadn't seen it myself I wouldn't have believed it
neither. The Viceroy of Canada don't live no better. There was forty
of them, but each one had his own house and a yard--most exclusive--
and a cot and a drinking-basin all to hisself. They had servants
standing 'round waiting to feed 'em when they was hungry, and valets
to wash 'em; and they had their hair combed and brushed like the
grooms must when they go out on the box. Even the puppies had
overcoats with their names on 'em in blue letters, and the name of
each of those they called champions was painted up fine over his
front door just like it was a public-house or a veterinary's. They
were the biggest St. Bernards I ever did see. I could have walked
under them if they'd have let me. But they were very proud and
haughty dogs, and looked only once at me, and then sniffed in the
air. The little lady's own dog was an old gentleman bull-dog. He'd
come along with us, and when he notices how taken aback I was with
all I see, 'e turned quite kind and affable and showed me about.
"Jimmy Jocks," Miss Dorothy called him, but, owing to his weight, he
walked most dignified and slow, waddling like a duck as you might
say, and looked much too proud and handsome for such a silly name.
"That's the runway, and that's the Trophy House," says he to me, "and
that over there is the hospital, where you have to go if you get
distemper, and the vet. gives you beastly medicine."
"And which of these is your 'ouse, sir?" asks I, wishing to be
respectful. But he looked that hurt and haughty. "I don't live in the
kennels," says he, most contemptuous. "I am a house-dog. I sleep in
Miss Dorothy's room. And at lunch I'm let in with the family, if the
visitors don't mind. They most always do, but they're too polite to
say so. Besides," says he, smiling most condescending, "visitors are
always afraid of me. It's because I'm so ugly," says he. "I suppose,"
says he, screwing up his wrinkles and speaking very slow and
impressive, "I suppose I'm the ugliest bull-dog in America," and as
he seemed to be so pleased to think hisself so, I said, "Yes, sir,
you certainly are the ugliest ever I see," at which he nodded his
head most approving.
"But I couldn't hurt 'em, as you say," he goes on, though I hadn't
said nothing like that, being too polite. "I'm too old," he says; "I
haven't any teeth. The last time one of those grizzly bears," said
he, glaring at the big St. Bernards, "took a hold of me, he nearly
was my death," says he. I thought his eyes would pop out of his head,
he seemed so wrought up about it. "He rolled me around in the dirt,
he did," says Jimmy Jocks, "an' I couldn't get up. It was low," says
Jimmy Jocks, making a face like he had a bad taste in his mouth.
"Low, that's what I call it, bad form, you understand, young man, not
done in our circles--and--and low." He growled, way down in his
stomach, and puffed hisself out, panting and blowing like he had been
on a run.
"I'm not a street-fighter," he says, scowling at a St. Bernard marked
"Champion." "And when my rheumatism is not troubling me," he says, "I
endeavor to be civil to all dogs, so long as they are gentlemen."
"Yes, sir," said I, for even to me he had been most affable.
At this we had come to a little house off by itself and Jimmy Jocks
invites me in. "This is their trophy-room," he says, "where they keep
their prizes. Mine," he says, rather grand-like, "are on the
sideboard." Not knowing what a sideboard might be, I said, "Indeed,
sir, that must be very gratifying." But he only wrinkled up his chops
as much as to say, "It is my right."
The trophy-room was as wonderful as any public-house I ever see. On
the walls was pictures of nothing but beautiful St. Bernard dogs, and
rows and rows of blue and red and yellow ribbons; and when I asked
Jimmy Jocks why they was so many more of blue than of the others, he
laughs and says, "Because these kennels always win." And there was
many shining cups on the shelves which Jimmy Jocks told me were
prizes won by the champions.
"Now, sir, might I ask you, sir," says I, "wot is a champion?"
At that he panted and breathed so hard I thought he would bust
hisself. "My dear young friend!" says he. "Wherever have you been
educated? A champion is a--a champion," he says. "He must win nine
blue ribbons in the 'open' class. You follow me--that is--against all
comers. Then he has the title before his name, and they put his
photograph in the sporting papers. You know, of course, that _I_ am a
champion," says he. "I am Champion Woodstock Wizard III., and the two
other Woodstock Wizards, my father and uncle, were both champions."
"But I thought your name was Jimmy Jocks," I said.
He laughs right out at that.
"That's my kennel name, not my registered name," he says. "Why, you
certainly know that every dog has two names. Now, what's your
registered name and number, for instance?" says he.
"I've only got one name," I says. "Just Kid."
Woodstock Wizard puffs at that and wrinkles up his forehead and pops
out his eyes.
"Who are your people?" says he. "Where is your home?"
"At the stable, sir," I said. "My Master is the second groom."
At that Woodstock Wizard III. looks at me for quite a bit without
winking, and stares all around the room over my head.
"Oh, well," says he at last, "you're a very civil young dog," says
he, "and I blame no one for what he can't help," which I thought most
fair and liberal. "And I have known many bullterriers that were
champions," says he, "though as a rule they mostly run with fire-
engines, and to fighting. For me, I wouldn't care to run through the
streets after a hose-cart, nor to fight," says he; "but each to his
taste."
I could not help thinking that if Woodstock Wizard III. tried to
follow a fire-engine he would die of apoplexy, and that, seeing he'd
lost his teeth, it was lucky he had no taste for fighting, but, after
his being so condescending, I didn't say nothing.
"Anyway," says he, "every smooth-coated dog is better than any hairy
old camel like those St. Bernards, and if ever you're hungry down at
the stables, young man, come up to the house and I'll give you a
bone. I can't eat them myself, but I bury them around the garden from
force of habit, and in case a friend should drop in. Ah, I see my
Mistress coming," he says, "and I bid you good-day. I regret," he
says, "that our different social position prevents our meeting
frequent, for you're a worthy young dog with a proper respect for
your betters, and in this country there's precious few of them have
that." Then he waddles off, leaving me alone and very sad, for he was
the first dog in many days that had spoken to me. But since he
showed, seeing that I was a stable-dog, he didn't want my company, I
waited for him to get well away. It was not a cheerful place to wait,
the Trophy House. The pictures of the champions seemed to scowl at
me, and ask what right had such as I even to admire them, and the
blue and gold ribbons and the silver cups made me very miserable. I
had never won no blue ribbons or silver cups; only stakes for the old
Master to spend in the publics, and I hadn't won them for being a
beautiful, high-quality dog, but just for fighting--which, of course,
as Woodstock Wizard III. says, is low. So I started for the stables,
with my head down and my tail between my legs, feeling sorry I had
ever left the Master. But I had more reason to be sorry before I got
back to him.
The Trophy House was quite a bit from the kennels, and as I left it I
see Miss Dorothy and Woodstock Wizard III. walking back toward them,
and that a fine, big St. Bernard, his name was Champion Red Elfberg,
had broke his chain, and was running their way. When he reaches old
Jimmy Jocks he lets out a roar like a grain-steamer in a fog, and he
makes three leaps for him. Old Jimmy Jocks was about a fourth his
size; but he plants his feet and curves his back, and his hair goes
up around his neck like a collar. But he never had no show at no
time, for the grizzly bear, as Jimmy Jocks had called him, lights on
old Jimmy's back and tries to break it, and old Jimmy Jocks snaps his
gums and claws the grass, panting and groaning awful. But he can't do
nothing, and the grizzly bear just rolls him under him, biting and
tearing cruel. The odds was all that Woodstock Wizard III. was going
to be killed. I had fought enough to see that, but not knowing the
rules of the game among champions, I didn't like to interfere between
two gentlemen who might be settling a private affair, and, as it
were, take it as presuming of me. So I stood by, though I was shaking
terrible, and holding myself in like I was on a leash. But at that
Woodstock Wizard III., who was underneath, sees me through the dust,
and calls very faint, "Help, you!" he says. "Take him in the hind-
leg," he says. "He's murdering me," he says. And then the little Miss
Dorothy, who was crying, and calling to the kennel-men, catches at
the Red Elfberg's hind-legs to pull him off, and the brute, keeping
his front pats well in Jimmy's stomach, turns his big head and snaps
at her. So that was all I asked for, thank you. I went up under him.
It was really nothing. He stood so high that I had only to take off
about three feet from him and come in from the side, and my long,
"punishing jaw" as mother was always talking about, locked on his
woolly throat, and my back teeth met. I couldn't shake him, but I
shook myself, and every time I shook myself there was thirty pounds
of weight tore at his windpipes. I couldn't see nothing for his long
hair, but I heard Jimmy Jocks puffing and blowing on one side, and
munching the brute's leg with his old gums. Jimmy was an old sport
that day, was Jimmy, or, Woodstock Wizard III., as I should say. When
the Red Elfberg was out and down I had to run, or those kennel-men
would have had my life. They chased me right into the stables; and
from under the hay I watched the head-groom take down a carriage-whip
and order them to the right about. Luckily Master and the young
grooms were out, or that day there'd have been fighting for
everybody.
Well, it nearly did for me and the Master. "Mr. Wyndham, sir," comes
raging to the stables and said I'd half-killed his best prize-winner,
and had oughter be shot, and he gives the Master his notice. But Miss
Dorothy she follows him, and says it was his Red Elfberg what began
the fight, and that I'd saved Jimmy's life, and that old Jimmy Jocks
was worth more to her than all the St. Bernards in the Swiss
mountains--where-ever they be. And that I was her champion, anyway.
Then she cried over me most beautiful, and over Jimmy Jocks, too, who
was that tied up in bandages he couldn't even waddle. So when he
heard that side of it, "Mr. Wyndham, sir," told us that if Nolan put
me on a chain, we could stay. So it came out all right for everybody
but me. I was glad the Master kept his place, but I'd never worn a
chain before, and it disheartened me--but that was the least of it.
For the quality-dogs couldn't forgive my whipping their champion, and
they came to the fence between the kennels and the stables, and
laughed through the bars, barking most cruel words at me. I couldn't
understand how they found it out, but they knew. After the fight
Jimmy Jocks was most condescending to me, and he said the grooms had
boasted to the kennel-men that I was a son of Regent Royal, and that
when the kennel-men asked who was my mother they had had to tell them
that too. Perhaps that was the way of it, but, however, the scandal
was out, and every one of the quality-dogs knew that I was a street-
dog and the son of a black-and-tan.
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