A Gentleman From France/Chapter 6
Bow-wow, hurry-scurry, but it was fun scampering down the street.
He could hear the cries of the distressed Marie, and from scoldings that his mistress had given her on other occasions when she had failed to give him his bath at just the right time, or had not thoroughly combed and brushed his coat, he knew just the kind of a raking-over she would get.
There was not freedom enough on the sidewalk for his newly found ambition so he soon took to the road, which was broad and unobstructed, save for occasional teams and automobiles. This was what he had longed for all through the weary month of their tour. He ran so fast and so furiously for a time that people stopped to look after him, and soon this freak of his nearly cost him his life.
He had reached the outskirts of the city, when, as he turned a corner, he ran almost between the legs of a policeman who was out on a stray dog hunt.
He noticed the Airedale was without collar or master, and, being a dog-hater, he whipped out his revolver and fired at the unsuspecting Pierre.
There was something sinister in the sharp crack of the revolver, and in the whistling bullet that kicked up a shower of sand, so Pierre sprang through an open gateway which happened to be placed just right and disappeared before the policeman could fire again.
It was a narrow escape. Perhaps after all everything was not so fine in this great new world into which he had fled so gleefully.
Two blocks farther on he entered a private yard, and came face to face with one of his own kind.
Now in dog etiquette a strange dog should not enter the yard of another dog until he is invited by that dog. Pierre did not know this law of dogland, as he had always been a law unto himself, and had not associated much with other dogs, since his days at Hotel Bellevue, and then he was too young to have learned the ways of dogs.
So when the big bull wrinkled up his lips and growled, saying in dog language, "See here, my fine fellow, what are you doing in my front yard?" the Airedale mistook the challenge for an invitation to engage the bulldog in battle, or perhaps as a personal insult.
Here then was the thing for which he had been looking so long, a genuine fight; so he went in like a little fury.
Soon his excited yelping and snarling brought half a dozen eager boys to the scene, and they all with great partizanship began cheering on the white bulldog, though he really needed no encouragement, but went at his adversary in a very business-like manner. He did not bark nor growl, but steadily advanced upon the Airedale, unmindful of the other's constant snapping, waiting for the opening that he wanted.
The bulldog was much heavier than Pierre, and also an old fighter. Although the Airedale fought furiously, advancing and retreating like a flash, and punished the bull freely, yet he was no match for him. Almost before he knew it, the older dog had him by the throat and was slowly shutting off his wind. Struggle as he would, he could not free himself.
His eyes bulged and his breath came in wheezy gasps.
"Wow, wow," he had not imagined a dog-fight was a serious thing like this. He had always considered it a, rather strenuous rough and tumble that usually ended amicably.
Soon the world began to grow dark, and he slumped down in a limp heap.
Just in the nick of time, when the victor had almost choked the last spark of life out of him, a humane man came to the rescue with a pinch of snuff, which he blew into the nostrils of the bulldog. This caused him to loose his hold and sneeze violently, and in that instant Pierre's rescuer dragged him from the bull's jaws. Then he had a boy bring out a pail of water which he threw over the Airedale, that soon sat up and blinked. In five minutes' time he was as good as new, but he had found out all he wanted to know about dog-fights for that day.
"But, Papa," protested one of the boys, "he came into our yard and pitched into Tige."
"He's nothing but a puppy," replied the man. "And he is such a beauty I could not let Tige kill him. He will know better next time."
Pierre saw that the man was a friend, so he went over to him and licked his hand, as a token of friendship and gratitude.
Then it was that the man noted the chain about his neck and the War Cross. "What have we here?" he asked, putting his hand to the Airedale's neck. Pierre backed away. Perhaps they wanted to rob him of his precious chain and cross, but the man coaxed and talked to him reassuringly and was soon able to examine the war trophy.
"La Croix de Guerre," he read. "Boys, this dog is a war hero. He is wearing the War Cross of France."
Pierre was much pleased that they had discovered his importance and wagged his tail freely, while the boys all crowded about him to admire the cross.
He would have liked to stay with the good man notwithstanding the fact that the bulldog glowered at him out of the corner of his eye, but the man and boys soon drove him out of the yard by throwing sticks at him, and he heard the man say, "He will soon go home if we do not pet him."
Home, why, yes, he would go home to-morrow, but for the present he must see more of this great world, even though it was rather strenuous. Soon he espied a dog running with a team. What fun that must be! So he scurried after them and joined the dog under the vehicle. But the dog growled savagely at him and drove him away.
The team must belong to this dog, just as the yard had belonged to the bulldog. Well, he would hunt up a wagon for himself. So the first team that chanced to drive by he ran barking after and took his place under the wagon, just behind the horses' heels as he had seen the other dog do.
My, but it was fun, scampering along behind the horse, with the great round wheels rolling along beside one! This was life! This was the world—the real thing.
All went well for a mile or two, until the team stopped and the man hitched the horse to a post and went into the house.
Then poor unsophisticated Pierre went up and smelled the horse's heels. He wanted to make friends.
It was lucky the horse was only nervous, and not vicious, but even then it was bad enough, for the kick that Pierre got rolled him entirely out from under the wagon, and so badly lamed his shoulder that at first he thought it was broken and could not be used. So he ran ki-yi-ing down a side-street, while some boys who had been watching laughed, and thought it a great joke.
For the rest of the day Pierre went on three legs, and was a very sorrowful little dog.
His next adventure was even more disheartening, for by it he almost lost faith in the soldier-men who had always been such good friends to him.
About the middle of the afternoon he discovered a road leading out of the city. It did not seem to be as much used as the others, so he followed it. Soon it brought him out upon a hill where he could look down into a broad green meadow. Here a wonderful sight met his eyes. The meadow was covered with the small houses that the young Jean men always lived in. With a glad yelp he started for the soldiers' camp.
The local State Guards were camping upon the fair ground for three days subsequent to their departure for training-camp.
Pierre trotted into the midst of the camp, head erect, tail up.
This was great. This was home. Perhaps he would find the Colonel.
Half-way down the regimental street, a fine, tempting odor came to his nostrils. Then he remembered he was very hungry, so he started for the mess tent. The cook was busy in the back of the tent and did not see him enter. The first thing the hungry dog's eyes fell upon was a ham on the table near the entrance.
Without saying as much as by your leave, he sprang upon the bench and began pulling down the ham. Just then the cook looked around.
Bang, whang, clatter! Ki-yi! Ki-yi! The cook had flung a kettle cover with
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such good aim that he had hit the luckless Pierre on the head.
He fled down the regimental street followed by missiles and curses.
Two other dogs who had seen him running joined in the chase and he was run out of camp in disgrace.
Pierre was astonished, angry and disgusted. These soldier-men were surely different from those he had known. He, a War Dog, driven out of camp like an ordinary thief.
By night-time he was ravenously hungry and cold, and it was beginning to rain.
A couple of raw eggs and some steak would taste good. He had seen about enough of the world, anyway. He would go back to his mistress. What a scare he had given her!
So he threaded his way carefully on three legs back to the switchyard, where his mistress's private car had stood in the morning. He found the place all right, for he had all the keen instinct of a dog, but the car was gone.
Ah, well, it did not matter much. The road was very plain. Two long sticks and a lot of short ones running across showed the way. He and his mistress always followed just such a road as this when they travelled in the great car. So he started limping down the track on three legs.
For perhaps three miles he followed the straight plain road and then he came to a place where it was very queer. The road with the two long sticks and the cross sticks still lay ahead of him, but it was very high up, and there was a great expanse of water beneath.
He sat down on his stump of a tail and looked at it for a spell. It looked rather scary, but he was very hungry, and of a sudden a great longing for the lady whom two continents admired began tugging at his dog heart. So he got up and limped on to the railroad bridge.
It made him afraid to look down at the water when he was out in the middle of the bridge, so he looked ahead and limped along as fast as he could.
When he had reached the middle of the bridge, where it was very high and was wondering whether he had better turn back or go forward, he heard a thunderous noise behind, and looking over his shoulder saw the great shrieking, rumbling thing that always drew his mistress's car coming on to the end of the bridge.
It came straight at him rumbling, roaring and hissing. He started to go forward as fast as he could, but it was not fast enough, and almost before he realized, it was upon him.
He gave one frightened glance over his shoulder, and another down into the river, then jumped.
Thirty feet below he struck the water with a mighty splash, and went under so far that it seemed as though his lungs would burst before he came to the surface. But presently up he came, blowing and sputtering.
"Did he drown?" I hear my reader ask.
Oh, no! What a foolish question. Not he, for he was a dog.
He had the natural instincts of an animal, and in some ways man is the most helpless of all the animal kingdom.
He merely walked ashore in the water. That is what it seemed like to him, but it was really swimming.
All his kind since the first dog had known how to swim, and he was not such a fool as to drown.
When he scrambled up on the bank and shook himself free of water, he was probably the most sorrowful, water-soaked, altogether lonesome little dog in the whole world. He wanted his home, he wanted his mistress, he even wanted Marie; but he had lost them all.