Book: St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5, Nov 1877 Nov 1878

V >> Various >> St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5, Nov 1877 Nov 1878




A more unhappy little lass is seldom to be found than Bab was, as she
pattered after him, splashing recklessly through the puddles, and
getting as wet and muddy as possible, as a sort of penance for her
sins. For a mile or two she trudged stoutly along, while Ben marched
before in solemn silence, which soon became both impressive and
oppressive because so unusual, and such a proof of his deep
displeasure. Penitent Bab longed for just one word, one sign of
relenting; and when none came, she began to wonder how she could
possibly bear it if he kept his dreadful threat and did not speak to
her for a whole year.

But presently her own discomfort absorbed her, for her feet were
wet and cold as well as very tired; pop-corn and peanuts were not
particularly nourishing food, and hunger made her feel faint;
excitement was a new thing, and now that it was over she longed to
lie down and go to sleep; then the long walk with a circus at the
end seemed a very different affair from the homeward trip with a
distracted mother awaiting her. The shower had subsided into a dreary
drizzle, a chilly east wind blew up, the hilly road seemed to lengthen
before the weary feet, and the mute, blue flannel figure going on
so fast with never a look or sound, added the last touch to Bab's
remorseful anguish.

Wagons passed, but all were full, and no one offered a ride. Men and
boys went by with rough jokes on the forlorn pair, for rain soon made
them look like young tramps. But there was no brave Sancho to resent
the impertinence, and this fact was sadly brought to both their minds
by the appearance of a great Newfoundland dog who came trotting after
a carriage. The good creature stopped to say a friendly word in his
dumb fashion, looking up at Bab with benevolent eyes, and poking his
nose into Ben's hand before he bounded away with his plumy tail curled
over his back.

Ben started as the cold nose touched his fingers, gave the soft head a
lingering pat, and watched the dog out of sight through a thicker mist
than any the rain made. But Bab broke down; for the wistful look
of the creature's eyes reminded her of lost Sancho, and she sobbed
quietly as she glanced back longing to see the dear old fellow jogging
along in the rear.

Ben heard the piteous sound and took a sly peep over his shoulder,
seeing such a mournful spectacle that he felt appeased, saying to
himself as if to excuse his late sternness:

"She _is_ a naughty girl, but I guess she is about sorry enough now.
When we get to that sign-post I'll speak to her, only I wont forgive
her till Sanch comes back."

But he was better than his word; for, just before the post was
reached, Bab, blinded by tears, tripped over the root of a tree, and,
rolling down the bank, landed in a bed of wet nettles. Ben had her
out in a jiffy, and vainly tried to comfort her; but she was past
any consolation he could offer, and roared dismally as she wrung her
tingling hands, with great drops running over her cheeks almost as
fast as the muddy little rills ran down the road.

"Oh dear, oh dear! I'm all stinged up, and I want my supper; and my
feet ache, and I'm cold, and everything is _so_ horrid!" wailed the
poor child lying on the grass, such a miserable little wet bunch that
the sternest parent would have melted at the sight.

"Don't cry so, Babby; I was real cross, and I'm sorry. I'll forgive
you right away now, and never shake you any more," cried Ben, so full
of pity for her tribulations that he forgot his own, like a generous
little man.

"Shake me again, if you want to; I know I was very bad to tag and lose
Sanch. I never will any more, and I'm so sorry, I don't know what to
do," answered Bab, completely bowed down by this magnanimity.

"Never mind; you just wipe up your face and come along, and we'll tell
Ma all about it, and she'll fix us as nice as can be. I shouldn't
wonder if Sanch got home now before we did," said Ben, cheering
himself as well as her by the fond hope.

"I don't believe _I_ ever shall, I'm so tired my legs wont go, and the
water in my boots makes them feel dreadfully. I wish that boy would
wheel me a piece. Don't you s'pose he would?" asked Bab, wearily
picking herself up as a tall lad trundling a barrow came out of a yard
near by.

"Hullo, Joslyn!" said Ben, recognizing the boy as one of the "hill
fellows" who come to town Saturday nights for play or business.

"Hullo, Brown," responded the other, arresting his squeaking progress
with signs of surprise at the moist tableau before him.

"Where goin'?" asked Ben with masculine brevity.

"Got to carry this home, hang the old thing!"

"Where to?"

"Batchelor's, down yonder," and the boy pointed to a farm-house at the
foot of the next hill.

"Goin' that way, take it right along."

"What for?" questioned the prudent youth, distrusting such unusual
neighborliness.

"She's tired, wants a ride; I'll leave it all right, true as I live
and breathe," explained Ben, half ashamed yet anxious to get his
little responsibility home as soon as possible, for mishaps seemed to
thicken.

"Ho, _you_ couldn't cart her all that way! she's most as heavy as a
bag of meal," jeered the taller lad, amused at the proposition.

"I'm stronger than most fellers of my size. Try, if I aint," and Ben
squared off in such scientific style that Joslyn responded with sudden
amiability:

"All right, let's see you do it."

Bab huddled into her new equipage without the least fear, and Ben
trundled her off at a good pace, while the boy retired to the shelter
of the barn to watch their progress, glad to be rid of an irksome
errand.

At first, all went well, for the way was down hill, and the wheel
squeaked briskly round and round; Bab smiled gratefully upon her
bearer, and Ben "went in on his muscle with a will," as he expressed
it. But presently the road grew sandy, began to ascend, and the load
seemed to grow heavier with every step.

"I'll get out now. It's real nice, but I guess I _am_ too heavy," said
Bab, as the face before her got redder and redder, and the breath
began to come in puffs.

"Sit still. He said I couldn't. I'm not going to give in with him
looking on," panted Ben, and pushed gallantly up the rise, over the
grassy lawn to the side gate of the Batchelors' door-yard, with his
head down, teeth set, and every muscle of his slender body braced to
the task.

"Did ever ye see the like of that now? Ah, ha!

'The streets were so wide,
and the lanes were so narry,
He brought his wife home
on a little wheelbarry,'"

sung a voice with an accent which made Ben drop his load and push back
his hat, to see Pat's red head looking over the fence.

To have his enemy behold him then and there was the last bitter drop
in poor Ben's cup of humiliation. A shrill approving whistle from the
hill was some comfort, however, and gave him spirit to help Bab out
with composure, though his hands were blistered and he had hardly
breath enough to issue the command:

"Go along home, and don't mind him."

"Nice childer, ye are, runnin' off this way, settin' the women
disthracted, and me wastin' me time comin' after ye when I'd be
milkin' airly so I'd get a bit of pleasure the day," grumbled Pat,
coming up to untie the Duke, whose Roman nose Ben had already
recognized, as well as the roomy chaise standing before the door.

"Did Billy tell you about us?" asked Bab, gladly following toward this
welcome refuge.

"Faith he did, and the Squire sint me to fetch ye home quiet and aisy.
When ye found me, I'd jist stopped here to borry a light for me pipe.
Up wid ye, b'y, and not be wastin' me time stramashin' afther a
spalpeen that I'd like to lay me whip over," said Pat, gruffly, as Ben
came along, having left the barrow in the shed.

"Don't you wish you could? You needn't wait for me; I'll come when I'm
ready," answered Ben, dodging round the chaise, bound not to mind Pat,
if he spent the night by the road-side in consequence.

"Bedad, and I wont then. It's lively ye are; but four legs is better
than two, as ye'll find this night, me young mon!"

With that he whipped up and was off before Bab could say a word to
persuade Ben to humble himself for the sake of a ride. She lamented
and Pat chuckled, both forgetting what an agile monkey the boy was,
and as neither looked back, they were unaware that Master Ben was
hanging on behind among the straps and springs, making derisive
grimaces at his unconscious foe through the little glass in the
leathern back.

At the lodge gate Ben jumped down to run before with whoops of naughty
satisfaction, which brought the anxious waiters to the door in a
flock; so Pat could only shake his fist at the exulting little rascal
as he drove away, leaving the wanderers to be welcomed as warmly as if
they were a pair of model children.

Mrs. Moss had not been very much troubled after all; for Cy had told
her that Bab went after Ben, and Billy had lately reported her safe
arrival among them, so, mother-like, she fed, dried, and warmed the
runaways, before she scolded them.

Even then, the lecture was a mild one, for when they tried to tell the
adventures which to them seemed so exciting, not to say tragical, the
effect astonished them immensely, as their audience went into gales of
laughter, especially at the wheelbarrow episode, which Bab insisted on
telling, with grateful minuteness, to Ben's confusion. Thorny shouted,
and even tender-hearted Betty forgot her tears over the lost dog to
join in the familiar melody when Bab mimicked Pat's quotation from
Mother Goose.

"We must not laugh any more, or these naughty children will think they
have done something very clever in running away," said Miss Celia,
when the fun subsided, adding soberly, "I _am_ displeased, but I will
say nothing, for I think Ben is already punished enough."

"Guess I am," muttered Ben, with a choke in his voice as he glanced
toward the empty mat where a dear curly bunch used to lie with a
bright eye twinkling out of the middle of it.




CHAPTER XV.

BEN'S RIDE.


Great was the mourning for Sancho, because his talents and virtues
made him universally admired and beloved. Miss Celia advertised,
Thorny offered rewards, and even surly Pat kept a sharp look-out for
poodle dogs when he went to market; but no Sancho or any trace of him
appeared. Ben was inconsolable, and sternly said it served Bab right
when the _dog_-wood poison affected both face and hands. Poor Bab
thought so, too, and dared ask no sympathy from him, though Thorny
eagerly prescribed plantain leaves, and Betty kept her supplied with
an endless succession of them steeped in cream and pitying tears. This
treatment was so successful that the patient soon took her place in
society as well as ever, but for Ben's affliction there was no cure,
and the boy really suffered in his spirits.

[Illustration: BEN AND LITA AT THE BROOK.]

"I don't think it's fair that I should have so much trouble--first
losing father and then Sanch. If it wasn't for Lita and Miss Celia,
I don't believe I could stand it," he said, one day, in a fit of
despair, about a week after the sad event.

"Oh, come now, don't give up so, old fellow. We'll find him if he's
alive, and if he isn't I'll try and get you another as good,"
answered Thorny, with a friendly slap on the shoulder, as Ben sat
disconsolately among the beans he had been hoeing.

"As if there ever could be another half as good!" cried Ben, indignant
at the idea; "or as if I'd ever try to fill his place with the best
and biggest dog that ever wagged a tail! No, sir, there's only one
Sanch in all the world, and if I can't have him I'll never have a dog
again."

"Try some other sort of a pet, then. You may have any of mine you
like. Have the peacocks; do now," urged Thorny, full of boyish
sympathy and good-will.

"They are dreadful pretty, but I don't seem to care about 'em, thank
you," replied the mourner.

"Have the rabbits, all of them," which was a handsome offer on
Thorny's part, for there were a dozen at least.

"They don't love a fellow as a dog does; all they care for is stuff to
eat and dirt to burrow in. I'm sick of rabbits." And well he might be,
for he had had the charge of them ever since they came, and any boy
who has ever kept bunnies knows what a care they are.

"So am I! Guess we'll have an auction and sell out. Would Jack be a
comfort to you? If he will, you may have him. I'm so well now, I can
walk, or ride anything," added Thorny, in a burst of generosity.

"Jack couldn't be with me always, as Sanch was, and I couldn't keep
him if I had him."

Ben tried to be grateful, but nothing short of Lita would have healed
his wounded heart, and she was not Thorny's to give, or he would
probably have offered her to his afflicted friend.

"Well, no, you couldn't take Jack to bed with you, or keep him up in
your room, and I'm afraid he would never learn to do anything clever.
I do wish I had something you wanted, I'd so love to give it to you."

He spoke so heartily and was so kind that Ben looked up, feeling that
he had given him one of the sweetest things in the world--friendship;
he wanted to tell him so, but did not know how to do it, so caught up
his hoe and fell to work, saying, in a tone Thorny understood better
than words:

"You are real good to me--never mind, I wont worry about it; only it
seems extra hard coming so soon after the other----"

He stopped there, and a bright drop fell on the bean leaves, to shine
like dew till Ben saw clearly enough to bury it out of sight in a
great hurry.

"By Jove! I'll find that dog, if he is out of the ground. Keep your
spirits up, my lad, and we'll have the dear old fellow back yet."

With which cheering prophecy Thorny went off to rack his brains as to
what could be done about the matter.

Half an hour afterward, the sound of a hand-organ in the avenue roused
him from the brown study into which he had fallen as he lay on
the newly mown grass of the lawn. Peeping over the wall, Thorny
reconnoitered, and, finding the organ a good one, the man a
pleasant-faced Italian, and the monkey a lively animal, he ordered
them all in, as a delicate attention to Ben, for music and monkey
together might suggest soothing memories of the past, and so be a
comfort.

In they came by way of the Lodge, escorted by Bab and Betty, full
of glee, for hand-organs were rare in those parts, and the children
delighted in them. Smiling till his white teeth shone and his black
eyes sparkled, the man played away while the monkey made his pathetic
little bows, and picked up the pennies Thorny threw him.

"It is warm, and you look tired. Sit down and I'll get you some
dinner," said the young master, pointing to the seat which now stood
near the great gate.

With thanks in broken English the man gladly obeyed, and Ben begged to
be allowed to make Jacko equally comfortable, explaining that he knew
all about monkeys and what they liked. So the poor thing was freed
from his cocked hat and uniform, fed with bread and milk, and allowed
to curl himself up in the cool grass for a nap, looking so like a
tired little old man in a fur coat that the children were never weary
of watching him.

Meantime, Miss Celia had come out, and was talking Italian to Giacomo
in a way that delighted his homesick heart. She had been to Naples,
and could understand his longing for the lovely city of his birth, so
they had a little chat in the language which is all music, and the
good fellow was so grateful that he played for the children to dance
till they were glad to stop, lingering afterward as if he hated to set
out again upon his lonely, dusty walk.

"I'd rather like to tramp round with him for a week or so. Could make
enough to live on as easy as not, if I only had Sanch to show off,"
said Ben, as he was coaxing Jacko into the suit which he detested.

"You go wid me, yes?" asked the man, nodding and smiling, well pleased
at the prospect of company, for his quick eye and what the boys let
fall in their talk showed him that Ben was not one of them.

"If I had my dog I'd love to," and with sad eagerness Ben told the
tale of his loss, for the thought of it was never long out of his
mind.

"I tink I see droll dog like he, way off in New York. He do leetle
trick wid letter, and dance, and go on he head, and many tings to
make laugh," said the man, when he had listened to a list of Sanch's
beauties and accomplishments.

"Who had him?" asked Thorny, full of interest at once.

"A man I not know. Cross fellow what beat him when he do letters bad.

"Did he spell his name?" cried Ben, breathlessly.

"No, that for why man beat him. He name Generale, and he go spell
Sancho all times, and cry when whip fall on him. Ha! yes! that name
true one, not Generale?" and the man nodded, waved his hands and
showed his teeth, almost as much excited as the boys.

"It's Sanch! let's go and get him, now, right off!" cried Ben, in a
fever to be gone.

"A hundred miles away, and no clue but this man's story? We must wait
a little, Ben, and be sure before we set out," said Miss Celia, ready
to do almost anything, but not so certain as the boys. "What sort of
a dog was it? A large, curly, white poodle, with a queer tail?" she
asked of Giacomo.

"No, Signorina mia, he no curly, no wite, he black, smooth dog, littel
tail, small, so," and the man held up one brown finger with a gesture
which suggested a short, wagging tail.

"There, you see how mistaken we were. Dogs are often named Sancho,
especially Spanish poodles, for the original Sancho was a Spaniard,
you know. This dog is not ours, and I'm so sorry."

The boys faces had fallen dismally as their hope was destroyed; but
Ben would not give up, for him there was and could be only one Sancho
in the world, and his quick wits suggested an explanation which no one
else thought of.

"It may be my dog--they color 'em as we used to paint over trick
horses. I told you he was a valuable chap, and those that stole him
hide him that way, else he'd be no use, don't you see, because we'd
know him."

"But the black dog had no tail," began Thorny, longing to be
convinced, but still doubtful.

Ben shivered as if the mere thought hurt him, as he said, in a grim
tone:

"They might have cut Sanch's off."

"Oh, no! no! they mustn't, they wouldn't!"

"How could any one be so wicked?" cried Bab and Betty, horrified at
the suggestion.

"You don't know what such fellows would do to make all safe, so
they could use a dog to earn their living for 'em," said Ben, with
mysterious significance, quite forgetting in his wrath that he had
just proposed to get his own living in that way himself.

"He no your dog? Sorry I not find him for you. Addio, signorina!
Grazia, signor! Buon giorno, buon giorno," and, kissing his hand, the
Italian shouldered organ and monkey, ready to go.

Miss Celia detained him long enough to give him her address, and beg
him to let her know if he met poor Sanch in any of his wanderings, for
such itinerant showmen often cross each other's paths. Ben and Thorny
walked to the school-corner with him, getting more exact information
about the black dog and his owner, for they had no intention of giving
it up so soon.

That very evening, Thorny wrote to a boy cousin in New York giving
all the particulars of the case, and begging him to hunt up the man,
investigate the dog, and see that the police made sure that everything
was right. Much relieved by this performance, the boys waited
anxiously for a reply, and when it came found little comfort in it.
Cousin Horace had done his duty like a man, but regretted that he
could only report a failure. The owner of the black poodle was a
suspicious character, but told a straight story, how he had bought
the dog from a stranger, and exhibited him with success till he was
stolen. Knew nothing of his history and was very sorry to lose him,
for he was a remarkably clever beast.

"I told my dog man to look about for him, but he says he has probably
been killed, with ever so many more, so there is an end of it, and I
call it a mean shame."

"Good for Horace! I told you he'd do it up thoroughly and see the
end of it," said Thorny, as he read that paragraph in the deeply
interesting letter.

"May be the end of _that_ dog, but not of mine. I'll bet he ran away,
and if it _was_ Sanch he'll come home. You see if he doesn't," cried
Ben, refusing to believe that all was over.

"A hundred miles off? Oh, he couldn't find you without help, smart as
he is," answered Thorny, incredulously.

Ben looked discouraged, but Miss Celia cheered him up again by saying:

"Yes, he could. My father had a friend who kept a little dog in Paris,
and the creature found her in Milan and died of fatigue next day. That
was very wonderful, but true, and I've no doubt that if Sanch _is_
alive he will come home. Let us hope so, and be happy while we wait."

"We will!" said the boys, and day after day looked for the wanderer's
return, kept a bone ready in the old place if he should arrive at
night, and shook his mat to keep it soft for his weary bones when he
came. But weeks passed, and still no Sanch.

Something else happened, however, so absorbing that he was almost
forgotten for a time, and Ben found a way to repay a part of all he
owed his best friend.

Miss Celia went off for a ride one afternoon, and an hour afterward,
as Ben sat in the porch reading, Lita dashed into the yard with the
reins dangling about her legs, the saddle turned round, and one side
covered with black mud, showing that she had been down. For a minute,
Ben's heart stood still, then he flung away his book, ran to the
horse, and saw at once by her heaving flanks, dilated nostrils and wet
coat, that she must have come a long way and at full speed.

"She has had a fall, but isn't hurt or frightened," thought the boy,
as the pretty creature rubbed her nose against his shoulder, pawed the
ground and champed her bit, as if she tried to tell him all about the
disaster, whatever it was.

"Lita, where's Miss Celia?" he asked, looking straight into the
intelligent eyes, which were troubled but not wild.

Lita threw up her head and neighed loud and clear as if she called her
mistress, and turning, would have gone again if Ben had not caught the
reins and held her.

"All right, we'll find her;" and, pulling off the broken saddle,
kicking away his shoes, and ramming his hat firmly on, Ben was up like
a flash, tingling all over with a sense of power as he felt the bare
back between his knees, and caught the roll of Lita's eye as she
looked round with an air of satisfaction.

"Hi, there! Mrs. Moss! Something has happened to Miss Celia, and I'm
going to find her. Thorny is asleep; tell him easy, and I'll come back
as soon as I can."

Then, giving Lita her head, he was off before the startled woman had
time to do more than wring her hands and cry out:

"Go for the Squire! Oh, what shall we do?"

As if she knew exacty what was wanted of her, Lita went back the way
she had come, as Ben could see by the fresh, irregular tracks that cut
up the road where she had galloped for help. For a mile or more they
went, then she paused at a pair of bars which were let down to allow
the carts to pass into the wide hay-fields beyond. On she went again
cantering across the new-mown turf toward a brook, across which she
had evidently taken a leap before; for, on the further side, at a
place where cattle went to drink, the mud showed signs of a fall.

"You were a fool to try there, but where is Miss Celia?" said Ben,
who talked to animals as if they were people, and was understood much
better than any one not used to their companionship would imagine.

Now Lita seemed at a loss, and put her head down as if she expected to
find her mistress where she had left her, somewhere on the ground.
Ben called, but there was no answer, and he rode slowly along the
brook-side, looking far and wide with anxious eyes.

"May be she wasn't hurt, and has gone to that house to wait," thought
the boy, pausing for a last survey of the great, sunny field, which
had no place of shelter in it but one rock on the other side of the
little stream. As his eye wandered over it, something dark seemed
to blow out from behind it, as if the wind played in the folds of a
skirt, or a human limb moved. Away went Lita, and in a moment Ben
had found Miss Celia, lying in the shadow of the rock, so white and
motionless he feared that she was dead. He leaped down, touched her,
spoke to her, and receiving no answer, rushed away to bring a little
water in his leaky hat to sprinkle in her face, as he had seen them
do when any of the riders got a fall in the circus, or fainted from
exhaustion after they left the ring, where "do or die" was the motto
all adopted.

In a minute, the blue eyes opened, and she recognized the anxious face
bending over her, saying faintly, as she touched it:

"My good little Ben, I knew you'd find me--I sent Lita for you--I'm so
hurt I couldn't come."

"Oh, where? What shall I do? Had I better run up to the house?" asked
Ben, overjoyed to hear her speak, but much dismayed by her seeming
helplessness, for he had seen bad falls, and had them, too.

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