The Man With Two Left Feet

  But it wasn’t any good. They didn’t get along together at all. They hardly spoke. The man went into the house, and Fred went after him, carrying his gun. And when they got into the house it was just the same. The man sat in one chair, and Fred sat in another, and after a long time some men came in a motorcar, and the man went away with them. He didn’t say goodbye to me.

  When he had gone, Fred and his father made a great fuss of me. I couldn’t understand it. Men are so odd. The man wasn’t a bit pleased that I had brought him and Fred together, but Fred seemed as if he couldn’t do enough for me for having introduced him to the man. However, Fred’s father produced some cold ham—my favourite dish—and gave me quite a lot of it, so I stopped worrying over the thing. As mother used to say, ‘Don’t bother your head about what doesn’t concern you. The only thing a dog need concern himself with is the bill-of-fare. Eat your bun, and don’t make yourself busy about other people’s affairs.’ Mother’s was in some ways a narrow outlook, but she had a great fund of sterling common sense.

  The Mixer—II

  He Moves in Society

  It was one of those things which are really nobody’s fault. It was not the chauffeur’s fault, and it was not mine. I was having a friendly turn-up with a pal of mine on the sidewalk; he ran across the road; I ran after him; and the car came round the corner and hit me. It must have been going pretty slow, or I should have been killed. As it was, I just had the breath knocked out of me. You know how you feel when the butcher catches you just as you are edging out of the shop with a bit of meat. It was like that.

  I wasn’t taking much interest in things for awhile, but when I did I found that I was the centre of a group of three—the chauffeur, a small boy, and the small boy’s nurse.

  The small boy was very well-dressed, and looked delicate. He was crying.

  ‘Poor doggie,’ he said, ‘poor doggie.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault, Master Peter,’ said the chauffeur respectfully. ‘He run out into the road before I seen him.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I put in, for I didn’t want to get the man into trouble.

  ‘Oh, he’s not dead,’ said the small boy. ‘He barked.’

  ‘He growled,’ said the nurse. ‘Come away, Master Peter. He might bite you.’

  Women are trying sometimes. It is almost as if they deliberately misunderstood.

  ‘I won’t come away. I’m going to take him home with me and send for the doctor to come and see him. He’s going to be my dog.’

  This sounded all right. Goodness knows I am no snob, and can rough it when required, but I do like comfort when it comes my way, and it seemed to me that this was where I got it. And I liked the boy. He was the right sort.

  The nurse, a very unpleasant woman, had to make objections.

  ‘Master Peter! You can’t take him home, a great, rough, fierce, common dog! What would your mother say?’

  ‘I’m going to take him home,’ repeated the child, with a determination which I heartily admired, ‘and he’s going to be my dog. I shall call him Fido.’

  There’s always a catch in these good things. Fido is a name I particularly detest. All dogs do. There was a dog called that that I knew once, and he used to get awfully sick when we shouted it out after him in the street. No doubt there have been respectable dogs called Fido, but to my mind it is a name like Aubrey or Clarence. You may be able to live it down, but you start handicapped. However, one must take the rough with the smooth, and I was prepared to yield the point.

  ‘If you wait, Master Peter, your father will buy you a beautiful, lovely dog. . . .’

  ‘I don’t want a beautiful, lovely dog. I want this dog.’

  The slur did not wound me. I have no illusions about my looks. Mine is an honest, but not a beautiful, face.

  ‘It’s no use talking,’ said the chauffeur, grinning. ‘He means to have him. Shove him in, and let’s be getting back, or they’ll be thinking His Nibs has been kidnapped.’

  So I was carried to the car. I could have walked, but I had an idea that I had better not. I had made my hit as a crippled dog, and a crippled dog I intended to remain till things got more settled down.

  The chauffeur started the car off again. What with the shock I had had and the luxury of riding in a motorcar, I was a little distrait, and I could not say how far we went. But it must have been miles and miles, for it seemed a long time afterwards that we stopped at the biggest house I have ever seen. There were smooth lawns and flowerbeds, and men in overalls, and fountains and trees, and, away to the right, kennels with about a million dogs in them, all pushing their noses through the bars and shouting. They all wanted to know who I was and what prizes I had won, and then I realized that I was moving in high society.

  I let the small boy pick me up and carry me into the house, though it was all he could do, poor kid, for I was some weight. He staggered up the steps and along a great hall, and then let me flop on the carpet of the most beautiful room you ever saw. The carpet was a yard thick.

  There was a woman sitting in a chair, and as soon as she saw me she gave a shriek.

  ‘I told Master Peter you would not be pleased, m’lady,’ said the nurse, who seemed to have taken a positive dislike to me, ‘but he would bring the nasty brute home.’

  ‘He’s not a nasty brute, mother. He’s my dog, and his name’s Fido. John ran over him in the car, and I brought him home to live with us. I love him.’

  This seemed to make an impression. Peter’s mother looked as if she were weakening.

  ‘But, Peter, dear, I don’t know what your father will say. He’s so particular about dogs. All his dogs are prize-winners, pedigree dogs. This is such a mongrel.’

  ‘A nasty, rough, ugly, common dog, m’lady,’ said the nurse, sticking her oar in in an absolutely uncalled-for way.

  Just then a man came into the room.

  ‘What on earth?’ he said, catching sight of me.

  ‘It’s a dog Peter has brought home. He says he wants to keep him.’

  ‘I’m going to keep him,’ corrected Peter firmly.

  I do like a child that knows his own mind. I was getting fonder of Peter every minute. I reached up and licked his hand.

  ‘See! He knows he’s my dog, don’t you, Fido? He licked me.’

  ‘But, Peter, he looks so fierce.’ This, unfortunately, is true. I do look fierce. It is rather a misfortune for a perfectly peaceful dog. ‘I’m sure it’s not safe your having him.’

  ‘He’s my dog, and his name’s Fido. I am going to tell cook to give him a bone.’

  His mother looked at his father, who gave rather a nasty laugh.

  ‘My dear Helen,’ he said, ‘ever since Peter was born, ten years ago, he has not asked for a single thing, to the best of my recollection, which he has not got. Let us be consistent. I don’t approve of this caricature of a dog, but if Peter wants him, I suppose he must have him.’

  ‘Very well. But the first sign of viciousness he shows, he shall be shot. He makes me nervous.’

  So they left it at that, and I went off with Peter to get my bone.

  After lunch, he took me to the kennels to introduce me to the other dogs. I had to go, but I knew it would not be pleasant, and it wasn’t. Any dog will tell you what these prize-ribbon dogs are like. Their heads are so swelled they have to go into their kennels backwards.

  It was just as I had expected. There were mastiffs, terriers, poodles, spaniels, bulldogs, sheepdogs, and every other kind of dog you can imagine, all prize-winners at a hundred shows, and every single dog in the place just shoved his head back and laughed himself sick. I never felt so small in my life, and I was glad when it was over and Peter took me off to the stables.

  I was just feeling that I never wanted to see another dog in my life, when a terrier ran out, shouting. As soon as he saw me, he came up inquiringly, walking very stiff-legged, as terr
iers do when they see a stranger.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘and what particular sort of a prize-winner are you? Tell me all about the ribbons they gave you at the Crystal Palace, and let’s get it over.’

  He laughed in a way that did me good.

  ‘Guess again!’ he said. ‘Did you take me for one of the nuts in the kennels? My name’s Jack, and I belong to one of the grooms.’

  ‘What!’ I cried. ‘You aren’t Champion Bowlegs Royal or anything of that sort! I’m glad to meet you.’

  So we rubbed noses as friendly as you please. It was a treat meeting one of one’s own sort. I had had enough of those high-toned dogs who look at you as if you were something the garbage man had forgotten to take away.

  ‘So you’ve been talking to the swells, have you?’ said Jack.

  ‘He would take me,’ I said, pointing to Peter.

  ‘Oh, you’re his latest, are you? Then you’re all right—while it lasts.’

  ‘How do you mean, while it lasts?’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what happened to me. Young Peter took a great fancy to me once. Couldn’t do enough for me for a while. Then he got tired of me, and out I went. You see, the trouble is that while he’s a perfectly good kid, he has always had everything he wanted since he was born, and he gets tired of things pretty easy. It was a toy railway that finished me. Directly he got that, I might not have been on the earth. It was lucky for me that Dick, my present old man, happened to want a dog to keep down the rats, or goodness knows what might not have happened to me. They aren’t keen on dogs here unless they’ve pulled down enough blue ribbons to sink a ship, and mongrels like you and me—no offence—don’t last long. I expect you noticed that the grown-ups didn’t exactly cheer when you arrived?’

  ‘They weren’t chummy.’

  ‘Well take it from me, your only chance is to make them chummy. If you do something to please them, they might let you stay on, even though Peter was tired of you.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘That’s for you to think out. I couldn’t find one. I might tell you to save Peter from drowning. You don’t need a pedigree to do that. But you can’t drag the kid to the lake and push him in. That’s the trouble. A dog gets so few opportunities. But, take it from me, if you don’t do something within two weeks to make yourself solid with the adults, you can make your will. In two weeks Peter will have forgotten all about you. It’s not his fault. It’s the way he has been brought up. His father has all the money on earth, and Peter’s the only child. You can’t blame him. All I say is, look out for yourself. Well, I’m glad to have met you. Drop in again when you can. I can give you some good ratting, and I have a bone or two put away. So long.’

  It worried me badly what Jack had said. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. If it hadn’t been for that, I should have had a great time, for Peter certainly made a lot of fuss of me. He treated me as if I were the only friend he had.

  And, in a way, I was. When you are the only son of a man who has all the money in the world, it seems that you aren’t allowed to be like an ordinary kid. They coop you up, as if you were something precious that would be contaminated by contact with other children. In all the time that I was at the house I never met another child. Peter had everything in the world, except someone of his own age to go round with; and that made him different from any of the kids I had known.

  He liked talking to me. I was the only person round who really understood him. He would talk by the hour and I would listen with my tongue hanging out and nod now and then.

  It was worth listening to, what he used to tell me. He told me the most surprising things. I didn’t know, for instance, that there were any Red Indians in England but he said there was a chief named Big Cloud who lived in the rhododendron bushes by the lake. I never found him, though I went carefully through them one day. He also said that there were pirates on the island in the lake. I never saw them either.

  What he liked telling me about best was the city of gold and precious stones which you came to if you walked far enough through the woods at the back of the stables. He was always meaning to go off there some day, and, from the way he described it, I didn’t blame him. It was certainly a pretty good city. It was just right for dogs, too, he said, having bones and liver and sweet cakes there and everything else a dog could want. It used to make my mouth water to listen to him.

  We were never apart. I was with him all day, and I slept on the mat in his room at night. But all the time I couldn’t get out of my mind what Jack had said. I nearly did once, for it seemed to me that I was so necessary to Peter that nothing could separate us; but just as I was feeling safe his father gave him a toy aeroplane, which flew when you wound it up. The day he got it, I might not have been on the earth. I trailed along, but he hadn’t a word to say to me.

  Well, something went wrong with the aeroplane the second day, and it wouldn’t fly, and then I was in solid again; but I had done some hard thinking and I knew just where I stood. I was the newest toy, that’s what I was, and something newer might come along at any moment, and then it would be the finish for me. The only thing for me was to do something to impress the adults, just as Jack had said.

  Goodness knows I tried. But everything I did turned out wrong. There seemed to be a fate about it. One morning, for example, I was trotting round the house early, and I met a fellow I could have sworn was a burglar. He wasn’t one of the family, and he wasn’t one of the servants, and he was hanging round the house in a most suspicious way. I chased him up a tree, and it wasn’t till the family came down to breakfast, two hours later, that I found that he was a guest who had arrived overnight, and had come out early to enjoy the freshness of the morning and the sun shining on the lake, he being that sort of man. That didn’t help me much.

  Next, I got in wrong with the boss, Peter’s father. I don’t know why. I met him out in the park with another man, both carrying bundles of sticks and looking very serious and earnest. Just as I reached him, the boss lifted one of the sticks and hit a small white ball with it. He had never seemed to want to play with me before, and I took it as a great compliment. I raced after the ball, which he had hit quite a long way, picked it up in my mouth, and brought it back to him. I laid it at his feet, and smiled up at him.

  ‘Hit it again,’ I said.

  He wasn’t pleased at all. He said all sorts of things and tried to kick me, and that night, when he thought I was not listening, I heard him telling his wife that I was a pest and would have to be got rid of. That made me think.

  And then I put the lid on it. With the best intentions in the world I got myself into such a mess that I thought the end had come.

  It happened one afternoon in the drawing room. There were visitors that day—women; and women seem fatal to me. I was in the background, trying not to be seen, for, though I had been brought in by Peter, the family never liked my coming into the drawing room. I was hoping for a piece of cake and not paying much attention to the conversation, which was all about somebody called Toto, whom I had not met. Peter’s mother said Toto was a sweet little darling, he was; and one of the visitors said Toto had not been at all himself that day and she was quite worried. And a good lot more about how all that Toto would ever take for dinner was a little white meat of chicken, chopped up fine. It was not very interesting, and I had allowed my attention to wander.

  And just then, peeping round the corner of my chair to see if there were any signs of cake, what should I see but a great beastly brute of a rat. It was standing right beside the visitor, drinking milk out of a saucer, if you please!

  I may have my faults, but procrastination in the presence of rats is not one of them. I didn’t hesitate for a second. Here was my chance. If there is one thing women hate, it is a rat. Mother always used to say, ‘If you want to succeed in life, please the women. They are the real bosses. The men don’t count.’ By eliminating this rodent I should earn
the gratitude and esteem of Peter’s mother, and, if I did that, it did not matter what Peter’s father thought of me.

  I sprang.

  The rat hadn’t a chance to get away. I was right on to him. I got hold of his neck, gave him a couple of shakes, and chucked him across the room. Then I ran across to finish him off.

  Just as I reached him, he sat up and barked at me. I was never so taken aback in my life. I pulled up short and stared at him.

  ‘I’m sure I beg your pardon, sir,’ I said apologetically. ‘I thought you were a rat.’

  And then everything broke loose. Somebody got me by the collar, somebody else hit me on the head with a parasol, and somebody else kicked me in the ribs. Everybody talked and shouted at the same time.

  ‘Poor darling Toto!’ cried the visitor, snatching up the little animal. ‘Did the great savage brute try to murder you!’

  ‘So absolutely unprovoked!’

  ‘He just flew at the poor little thing!’

  It was no good my trying to explain. Any dog in my place would have made the same mistake. The creature was a toy-dog of one of those extraordinary breeds—a prize-winner and champion, and so on, of course, and worth his weight in gold. I would have done better to bite the visitor than Toto. That much I gathered from the general run of the conversation, and then, having discovered that the door was shut, I edged under the sofa. I was embarrassed.

  ‘That settles it!’ said Peter’s mother. ‘The dog is not safe. He must be shot.’

  Peter gave a yell at this, but for once he didn’t swing the voting an inch.

  ‘Be quiet, Peter,’ said his mother. ‘It is not safe for you to have such a dog. He may be mad.’

  Women are very unreasonable.

  Toto, of course, wouldn’t say a word to explain how the mistake arose. He was sitting on the visitor’s lap, shrieking about what he would have done to me if they hadn’t separated us.

  Somebody felt cautiously under the sofa. I recognized the shoes of Weeks, the butler. I suppose they had rung for him to come and take me, and I could see that he wasn’t half liking it. I was sorry for Weeks, who was a friend of mine, so I licked his hand, and that seemed to cheer him up a whole lot.