The Price and the Pup

by Hugh Pendexter

THE PRICE AND THE PUP

By HUGH PENDEXTER

Author of "The Hyp and The Hop," "The Dogs of Purgatory," etc.

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"HE'S A TALKIN' DAWG," INSISTED FRITZ THE BARTENDER, TO JUSTIFY THE PRICE HE HAD PAID FOR THE PUP. AND THE PROPRIETOR HAD GOOD REASON LATER TO BELIEVE THAT HE WAS

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THE "Ventriloquic Marvel" turned up his collar and hugged the buildings to escape the full savagery of the autumnal downpour. He ought to have been wearing evening clothes on "Big Time" this night. A week before and that had been his lot but he had swapped it in Albany for a skinful of red liquor. He had started his spree a head-liner with full pockets. Now he lacked the price of a lodging for himself and Wonder. Wonder had no coat collar to turn up and in lieu of anything better dropped his tail as he trailed along at his master's heels. But Wonder hadn't lost his faith in the biped ahead. In his doggish estimation the Marvel was a glorious creature who would surely lead him back to the warm life-lights again, a bedraggled god taking his time in returning to Olympus.

The Marvel halted outside a saloon in a mean street and flogged his feverish mind to attention. Never before had he been reduced so low. He had drunk up and wasted every possible credit and asset, except the Wonder. His soul cringed as a new suggestion leaped at him. Sell Wonder, the pal of many trials and tribulations, the sharer of successes on Big Time? Why, one might as decently think of selling a parent or a child. No, sir! Liquor and exigence could and did impel their victims to grasp at abnormal expedients, but, thank God! the Ventriloquic Marvel would never barter the bone and blood of his only friend. And as he turned and patted the intelligent head the dog discovered heaven could be ensconced in the heart of the chilling storm.

"Don't you fret, old man. Never that," reassured the Marvel.

These words, constituting a solemn promise where everything had been taken for granted, suddenly aroused some nth sense in the Wonder, and he whined in a pleading note and pressed closer against his master. "We stick it out together," repeated the Marvel firmly.

The shadow of a doubt crept over the dog's mind as they worked their way deeper into the cheap neighborhood; the same shadow canopied the man's thoughts as he desperately cast about for some egress. He would call up the theatre. In reaching this decision he knew it was as hopeless an expedient as he could indulge in. Already the box office had threatened to have him arrested if he trespassed again. Still, if evil circumstances should force him and Wonder to part company it would be well to remember he had made a last throw against Des- tiny. Not that he would sacrifice Wonder—yet one must eat.

They came to another saloon, cheaper and meaner than the others. A glance through the dusty green curtains showed it was deserted except for a sleepy bartender at the lower end of the bar. Confident this was his last line of defense he extracted a nickel, his last one, and briskly entering approached the telephone and rang up the Empire. The evening sale was well under way and he knew the box office would rage and tear at the interruption. But he owed it to the dog. In fact, he felt rather virtuous in daring the managerial spleen. The Empire yelped in his left ear and with a shiver he began bluffing: "This is the Ventriloquic Marvel, talking from an uptown hotel. Just called——"

He sagged limply against the wall, unable to credit his hearing when the Box Office's curt voice cut in, saying, "Been looking for you, old man. Git to Syracuse so's to open to-morrer night. The Lulu Girls act is off and they want you to fill in. Got the wire this afternoon. It means long booking if you've finished your drunk."

"Righto!" cried the Marvel, his heart bouncing buoyantly. "I'm straight as a string. Off the stuff for good and I'll give 'em the act of the season——"

"All right. Better wire Isein at once. Good-bye."

"Say, just a minute, old pal," begged the Marvel. "I'll have to touch your office for a little advance——"

"Hardly. Good-night!"

"Listen, Bo," frantically pleaded the Marvel, his drawn forehead oozing sweat. "A ten-spot'll git me there and I'll give you an order on the Syracuse box-office——"

"Nothin' stirring," was the metallic reply. "The old man's put the kibosh on that. No advance. Git there if you can; if you can't it's your trouble."

"Jimmy! Won't you personally let me have——"

"Not on your life!" And bang went the receiver.

Experience had taught Wonder to look for results once his master took on the mood of radical decision; and he pricked his ears expectantly. The Marvel, his soul bitter as gall, turned and eyed him gloomily. The Wonder dragged his belly on the floor and waited.

The Marvel conned the situation fast and furiously. He must make Syracuse. The offer was the only life-saving plank afloat on a sea of misery. With ten dollars he could rehabilitate self. Ten dollars or hell. Given passage to Syracuse and he would prove he could be trusted. There would be the legitimate booking and pleasant park work throughout the summer. In the old days he would have wired peremptorily for an advance. But the Albany lapse, the culmination of a series of backslidings, had blacklisted him from circuit to circuit. No manager would advance him a penny under any circumstances—so thoroughly had he undermined his reputation. It caused his thin face to burn to know he never would have been offered this one chance had not the Lulu Girls defaulted without warning.

The dog, watching his master's change of expression, whined softly and dragging himself forward brushed his knee with supplicating paw. The Marvel averted his gaze, ashamed to meet the honest eyes, and furtively studied the bartender. A glance at the straight perpendicular formed by the big neck and the apex of the occipital allowed the Marvel, who was an authority on bartenders, to inventory the man's intellect. This one possessed cunning sufficient to defeat requests for credit, but would be very credulous as to the impossible and distrustful of the obvious. He would clout a man who offered a gold dollar for a dime, but would give a week's pay for a dream-book on "policy."

The bartender laid aside the sporting page, yawned, and tentatively sized up the stranger. The Marvel's raiment, albeit rain-soaked and, under a strong light, sodden, still retained its ultra lines. Then again the Marvel's bearing in making notes on the back of an envelope was impressive. The bartender ambled forward.

"Beer," laconically ordered the Marvel without lifting his frowning gaze from the envelope.

He continued his memoranda after the heavy glass was shoved before him. Had the drink been the objective the battle was won, for he would have retreated in line with the window. As it was he ignored the beer and disgustedly exclaimed, "Of all the rotten luck!" Then meeting the fishy gaze of the bartender he informed, "Called to Syracuse on business on a night like this. Wouldn't that jar you!"

Thereupon happened the miracle. Wonder, catching his master's gesture below the bartender's range of vision, rose on his hind legs and opening his mouth wide, advised, "Drink up, old man."

The bartender became cataleptic, incapable of motion or speech. Then his Adam's apple worked convulsively, and he hoarsely ejaculated, "Gawd! He spoke!"

The Marvel raised his brows inquiringly, then smiled indulgently and emptied his glass. "Oh, the pup?" he laughed. "Yes, he's always butting in."

"But he talked!" choked the bartender, his pudgy hands gripping the edge of the bar, his small eyes fixed in a glazed focus on Wonder.

"First one you ever see of them?" carelessly asked the Marvel.

"First one?" whispered the bartender. Then shaking his head violently to dispel any hallucinations, he weakly asked, "Any more of 'em?"

"I forgot," yawned the Marvel. "They are not as plenty over here as across the river. Inside of a year they'll be common as Fords."

"He spoke," stupidly reiterated the bartender, falling back against the cash register.

"Oh, that ain't nothing," smiled the Marvel. "Parrots and crows talk. Why not dogs. Dogs is more intelligent. Simply needs the cutting of a certain muscle at the roots of the tongue. Do that and they'll pick it up in no time."

"Good! Say, can yuh make him do it ag'in?" gasped the bartender.

"It ain't a case of making," gently corrected the Marvel, glancing anxiously toward the door and fearing some one might enter before he developed the nub of his scheme. "Once that talking muscle's cut they'll gab all the time if you'd let 'em. Ain't that so, old boy?" And again the hand below the bar gave the signal.

Again the Wonder rose on his hind legs and took several mincing steps toward the dazed bartender and hoarsely requested, "Set 'em up again, barkeep."

"Betcha life!" cried the bartender, nervously drawing a foaming glass. "Say, if that don't git yuh goat! Say, I'd give five bones if the boss could only blow in. Say, that's the wonderfullest thing I ever seen."

"Oh, it ain't nothing," deprecated the Marvel. "Lots of 'em over'n England. Reckon this is one of the first over here, though. He's getting to be a nuisance as you never know when he's going to spiel."

The bartender settled his red elbows on the bar and stared long and fascinatedly at the Wonder. The latter crept to the door and whined for his master to follow. The Marvel felt his soul was naked before the [premon]ition of the dog. He turned from the bar, then halted irresolute. He was hearing the call from Syracuse. If he did not go there was the bread line, starvation and freezing. The same fate awaited the dog. Why, from a humane point alone——

"How much does a dick like that cost?" the bartender was asking.

Facing about and careful not to overplay his hand the Marvel informed, "You can make a talking dog out of any pup once you cut that muscle. Just now they're fetching a good price in England, but they didn't oughter be worth more'n twenty or twenty-five dollars. Veterinary charges five for cutting the muscle."

"Will yuh take fifteen beans for that pup?" demanded the bartender.

The Marvel frowned, the Wonder howled softly and scratched at the door. "I wouldn't think of selling if I didn't have to beat it to Syracuse," muttered the Marvel, pushing his hat back from his wet forehead. "City's no place to keep a dog in. Say; tell you what I'll do. You can have him for fifteen if you'll let me buy him back for seventeen if I return here inside a week. That gives you two bucks for taking care of him."

The Wonder lifted his voice in a long, dolorous howl. He had fared high and he had starved. But not till now had sorrow come to him. The Marvel felt his courage slipping. He could not endure the dog's beseeching gaze, and he sharply cried, "Dead dog!"

Instantly the Wonder rolled over on his side and became motionless. The bartender hurriedly counted off the purchase price from a greasy roll, fearing lest the stranger would change his mind. Clutching the money the Marvel pulled his hat low over his eyes and gingerly stepped over the rigid form. Once through the door he bowed against the storm and hastened to the car line. There was a choking sensation in his throat that no amount of drink could alleviate.

True to training the Wonder held his pose, although his tail threatened to pound the floor when his master opened the door. As the bartender grabbed him by the collar and fastened a cord to it and tied him to the bar-rail he knew the play was ended. And again his despairing cry filled the long room.

"Hi, can that noise!" commanded the bartender, surveying his property with arms akimbo. "What's yuh name?" His nerves were a-tingle as he expected to be addressed. But the Wonder rested his head between his paws and moaned faintly.

Before the bartender could continue his efforts at a conversation the side door flew open to admit the proprietor and a friend. Both were eager to complete some conversation hindered by the rain and as they repaired to the tiny apartment at the head of the bar the proprietor was insisting:

"I tell you, Alderman, there ain't no chance of slipping up. Caley's been selected to bring the money and he's started a souse. Buley is trailing him and 'll see he has the wad when he gits here. Just now he's at Carty's, blowing off the gang——"

"And 'll git touched for the five thou," cried the Alderman. "Why, Greenshaw, he don't stand no more show of gitting clear of Carty's with the money then a snowball——"

"With Buley on the job?" cried Greenshaw. "Forgit it! I've got the goods on Buley and have only to wag a finger and up he goes for a long dip in the stir-bin. He wouldn't throw me for a million. He's got his orders to see Caley arrives here with the dough."

"Better let Buley make the touch," mumbled the Alderman.

Greenshaw shook his head cunningly, saying, "I've got the goods on Buley, but let him git five thousand dollers in his mitt and he might go crazy. No; I'll do the operating. Warm your feet! Caley's sent to deliver the rhino for this ward to you. He comes in sluiced and finds he's lost it. He'll dope it that he was stung in Carty's. Carty gits the black eye and comes through with the coin or loses his license. You'n me split the five. The boss would never sent Caley if he'd known he was starting a souse, but—— What the devil's that!" And he poked his startled face through the curtains as the Wonder lifted his soul in a final lamentation.

"How come that dog in here, Fritz?" he growled.

"My dawg, Boss," proudly explained Fritz. Then impressively, "Say, Boss, he's a talkin' dawg. What d'yuh know 'bout that?"

"You keep away from that Three-Star and make him can that bleating," ordered Greenshaw.

"It's on the level," earnestly persisted Fritz, nervously rubbing his hands under his apron. "He's a taikin' dawg——"

"What does he talk, Fritz?" grinned the Alderman, pulling the curtain aside.

"No kiddin', Alderman. The pup talks, reg'lar spieler. Guy in here had to catch a train. See? This dawg begin talkin' like four of a kind. Struck me in a heap. See? The guy said talkin' dogs is common as fleas in England. All yuh have to do to make a dog talk is to cut a muscle in the t'roat an' he spins it out jest like a parrot."

Greenshaw stalked forth, followed by the amused Alderman. "Say, you mutt," he growled. "'S'matterwitchyou? Kidding me?" And his gaze became dangerous.

But Fritz was composed and confident, and replied, "All right, all right. Yuh think I've been takin' sleepin powders, eh? Now jest watch the pup come across. Hi, doggie! Wanta drink?" The Wonder whined.

"Wanta eat?" A prolonged whine that evolved into a dismal howl.

"He ain't a talker; he's a singer," roared the Alderman.

"I tell yuh the dawg can speak," passionately insisted the bartender. "He was rippin' it off to beat the band a few minutes ago. Hi, pup! Wot's yuh name?"

The Wonder settled his head between his paws and eyed the bartender sullenly.

"Take that menagerie away," growled Greenshaw. "You pinhead! A talkin' dog!"

Red of face the bartender unfastened the cord and dragged the Wonder to the back room and tied him to a table-leg. Then he laboriously aimed a kick which missed, and gritted, "Jest wait till I'm off duty an' yuh'll talk or be a dead dawg."

"Dead dawg" recalled to the Wonder's sorrowing mind the glare of the footlights, the gaping sea of pallid faces and the storm of many applauding hands, and he rolled on his back and dutifully simulated death.

"Wouldn't that git yuh goat!" wheezed the bartender, backing away, his eyes bulging. "Can't talk, eh? I'll show them boneheads jest as soon as he gits used to the dump. Talk? Jest wait till he springs something on that pig of a Alderman."

III

With fifteen dollars of blood money burning his pocket the Marvel gained the railroad station and discovered he had passed many bars with never a thought of drinking. It was miraculous. Had he felt the least inclination he knew he would have succumbed. But when a man is burying his best friend, after promoting the funeral, his crass appetites of the flesh are apt to take a vacation. In truth, he was a wild-eyed, disheveled, haggard-faced Marvel as he examined the time-table and found the next train for Syracuse left in ten minutes.

What a king he would feel if only old Wonder were at his heels! Back on the long circuit he would keep straight and again star in Big Time. He took his place in the queue of passengers and advanced to the window. He had owned many dogs in the history of his act, but none so dependable and companionable as Wonder. He recalled their personalities as the man ahead leisurely negotiated for a ticket. He forgot humans as his lasting friendships had been confined to his four-footed companions. His weakness had alienated other friendships. Only a dog would "stand for" the things he had done.

Fox terrior and spaniel, lordly St. Bernard and poodle, collie and English bull, all true pals, lined up before his inner gaze as the man in front slowly counted his change. Disease and accidents had swept them away, all except the Wonder, prince of airedales. The Wonder was the only one he had ever sold.

"God!" he muttered, stepping from the line and slumping into a settee. "That was sure some rough on him. Hope that guy don't kick him round." And he visualized the bartender's brutish wrath when the Wonder should refuse to talk. "It was a case of him or both of us," he defended. "I'll do the act with a dummy till I can pick up a likely pup and teach him a few tricks."

The clanging of the gong warned him he had a scant sixty seconds. He jumped to his feet, fidgeted, then sullenly decided: "Next train 'll do just as well. No damn hurry." Gnawing his knuckles he lounged to the entrance and stared at the rain-blurred lights and pondered on how much he could afford to spend for drinks. There was a convenient bar just across the way. He knew that by this time the bartender was experimenting with the Wonder. In his ears rang frantic cries of pain and the soul-racking wail of the betrayed and abandoned.

"He was wise to what I was up to, all right," muttered the Marvel, no longer seeing the entrance to the café. "Eyes just like a woman's. Dog's eyes are more human than a human's. Damn little cuss didn't want me to go in there. He knew something was up. Next one I git 'll be a bonehead. If he'd been the collie——" But in the collie's day he was never so low down as to sell a pal. With an inarticulate cry he turned up his collar and dashed into the rain and caught a down-town car.

Trade was light in Greenshaw's that night. Through the misty glass he saw the fat-faced bartender mechanically waiting on several loungers. The dog was not in sight. An awful fear gripped his heart. Had the bartender already loosed his rage? "Damn him! He's a murderer," choked the Marvel. Then a voice inside his head calmly corrected, "No; you're the murderer."

He sprang back as though escaping from an accuser and at that moment a man lurched against him and careened into the door. Moving to the next window, which commanded the head of the bar, the Marvel beheld two men in a small curtained apartment. They were peering out at the new-comer. He dodged aside that they might not glimpse him and found himself standing in the mouth of an alley. Down this narrow way there came a low, piteous whining.

"He ain't dead yet," exulted the Marvel. And he whistled a shrill, peculiar note. Instantly a joyous clamor answered him. He waited, hoping a ragged form would bound out of the darkness and dash against him.

"Locked up in the back room," choked the Marvel.

Racing softly down the alley he came to a window which was raised a few inches. He shoved it and whistled softly. From a table in the middle of the room came an eager whining. As the table began dancing up and down he knew the Wonder was tied. He hissed a command that brought silence. The room was deserted, but beyond the swing-doors came the sound of drunken laughter and the clatter of feet. Vaulting through the window the Marvel rushed to the table and dived under it and crouched over the Wonder, who was now vibrating madly from nose to tail. A second command was necessary before the animal would quiet down and permit the Marvel to find and cut the rope.

By this time, however, retreat was blocked by the entrance of men. There were three of them and they took a table near the open window. The Marvel, humped up over the dog, gave a signal with his finger and the animal became rigid. Cautiously peering from under the soiled tablecloth the Marvel was interested to observe one of the trio deftly extract a large roll of bank notes from the pocket of an intoxicated individual and drop it into a cuspidor.

Then the thief said, "Caley, tell the boss the ward ticket 'll be put through the very minute the coin comes down the line for the boys."

"I've got the stuff with me now," solemnly informed the victim, tapping his raincoat. "See. When it comes to delivering the rhino the boss always sends for yours truly. See? An' whaya think? He says to me, 'Don't git—touched.' Why, gen'l'men, I can tote a million scads through this dirty ward an' never lose a penny. It makes me laugh. Me, Caley, the speed-boy, gittin' touched. I says to the boss, 'Forgit it.' See?"

"You're the stuff," admiringly cried the Alderman. "But when I heard you was lickin' 'em up in Carty's place and that Smiling Jimmy was in the bunch I told Greenshaw here, 'Good-night to Caley's roll if he's got it with him.'"

"Good-night nothing," indignantly cried Mr. Caley. "Think I'm just in from Canandaigua? Huh! T'ell with Smiling Jimmy an' the whole rotten bunch. There's one guy they'll keep their mitts off, drunk or sober. See? I got their records. I stand in with the D. A. I'm a big chief to that gang. I can send Smiling Jimmy to Buffalo with a bale of greens an' he'll wait for me to blow in an' take 'em off his hands."

"That's straight," heartily indorsed Greenshaw. "Jimmy wouldn't dream of copping anything off'n you—as a rule. But he's planning to make a break for the Coast. So when me'n the Alderman heard you was up to Carty's with him I got a hunch he might take a chance an' frisk you."

"You did, eh?" growled Mr. Caley, sneering heavily at the saloonkeeper. "I wanta tell you boobs——"

"You're hot stuff all right," nervously broke in the Alderman. "But as I've gotta ward meeting mebbe we'd better git down to cases and——"

"Damnation!" screamed Mr. Caley, jumping from his chair and fumbling in his clothes. "It's gone! Stung by——"

"What?" barked Greenshaw in an ugly voice. "See here, Caley; no monkey-business!"

"They got him at Carty's," huskily cried the Alderman, his flaccid face turning a sickly yellow.

"Th' dirty skins!" shrieked Mr. Caley, showing his respect for the Sullivan law by tugging a thirty-eight bulldog from his hip pocket. "I'm going back there——"

"Simmer down!" thundered Greenshaw. "Rough stuff won't git the money back."

"T'ell with the money," choked Mr. Caley, waving the revolver. "The scuts dared make a touch off'n me! I'll bump 'em off!"

But the Marvel, having an awful fear of lethal weapons and realizing it was time he gained the alley, now entered the game. Even while Mr. Caley was finishing his homicidal threat the Marvel hissed a command. The Wonder crawled from under the table and respectfully sat up on his haunches and waved his paws at the plotters and their victim.

The grotesque spectacle struck the trio mute. The Alderman gaped stupidly. Greenshaw puffed his cheeks preliminary to a profane explosion. Mr. Caley staggered against the table and rubbed his eyes incredulously.

Then the Wonder's jaws opened and in a deep, guttural voice he informed, "The money's in the spittoon at your feet. The big gink on your left copped it and put it there."

With a crash the Alderman's chair tipped over backward. Greenshaw doubled up and glared in terror at his accuser. Over the top of the swing doors peered the dumfounded visage of the bartender. The Alderman's fall jolted Mr. Caley's nerve-force into volition. He kicked over the cuspidor and pounced down on the money.

As the Marvel recalled his pet, Greenshaw began to realize the extent of his worse than failure, and with a furious roar snatched up a chair. Mr. Caley promptly began shooting in circles and the Alderman, squeaking in terror, clawed his way under a table. As the smoke and explosions filled the room with chaos, and the crashing of furniture evidenced the mad haste of the plotters to escape, the Marvel and the Wonder gained the window and were through it.

 

At an early hour next morning the Marvel humbly stood by the baggage-car door and waited till his friend boisterously leaped down upon him, yelping from sheer joy. As they trudged up the quiet streets the Marvel earnestly assured, "I'd rigged it to come and git you, old boy. To think you had a hunch I was double-crossing! I just had to have that mutt's fifteen beans. But I was coming back all the time." And the Wonder barked wholehearted belief and generously ignored the red tide of shame suffusing his master's face.