OIL OF DOG
My name is Boffer Bings. I was born of honest parents in one of thehumbler walks of life, my father being a manufacturer of dog-oil andmy mother having a small studio in the shadow of the village church,where she disposed of unwelcome babes. In my boyhood I was trained tohabits of industry; I not only assisted my father in procuring dogsfor his vats, but was frequently employed by my mother to carry awaythe debris of her work in the studio. In performance of this duty Isometimes had need of all my natural intelligence for all the lawofficers of the vicinity were opposed to my mother's business. Theywere not elected on an opposition ticket, and the matter had neverbeen made a political issue; it just happened so. My father'sbusiness of making dog-oil was, naturally, less unpopular, though theowners of missing dogs sometimes regarded him with suspicion, whichwas reflected, to some extent, upon me. My father had, as silentpartners, all the physicians of the town, who seldom wrote aprescription which did not contain what they were pleased to designateas _Ol. can._ It is really the most valuable medicine everdiscovered. But most persons are unwilling to make personalsacrifices for the afflicted, and it was evident that many of thefattest dogs in town had been forbidden to play with me--a fact whichpained my young sensibilities, and at one time came near driving me tobecome a pirate.
Looking back upon those days, I cannot but regret, at times, that byindirectly bringing my beloved parents to their death I was the authorof misfortunes profoundly affecting my future.
One evening while passing my father's oil factory with the body of afoundling from my mother's studio I saw a constable who seemed to beclosely watching my movements. Young as I was, I had learned that aconstable's acts, of whatever apparent character, are prompted by themost reprehensible motives, and I avoided him by dodging into theoilery by a side door which happened to stand ajar. I locked it atonce and was alone with my dead. My father had retired for the night.The only light in the place came from the furnace, which glowed adeep, rich crimson under one of the vats, casting ruddy reflections onthe walls. Within the cauldron the oil still rolled in indolentebullition, occasionally pushing to the surface a piece of dog.Seating myself to wait for the constable to go away, I held the nakedbody of the foundling in my lap and tenderly stroked its short, silkenhair. Ah, how beautiful it was! Even at that early age I waspassionately fond of children, and as I looked upon this cherub Icould almost find it in my heart to wish that the small, red woundupon its breast--the work of my dear mother--had not been mortal.
It had been my custom to throw the babes into the river which naturehad thoughtfully provided for the purpose, but that night I did notdare to leave the oilery for fear of the constable. "After all," Isaid to myself, "it cannot greatly matter if I put it into thiscauldron. My father will never know the bones from those of a puppy,and the few deaths which may result from administering another kind ofoil for the incomparable _ol. can._ are not important in a populationwhich increases so rapidly." In short, I took the first step in crimeand brought myself untold sorrow by casting the babe into thecauldron.
The next day, somewhat to my surprise, my father, rubbing his handswith satisfaction, informed me and my mother that he had obtained thefinest quality of oil that was ever seen; that the physicians to whomhe had shown samples had so pronounced it. He added that he had noknowledge as to how the result was obtained; the dogs had been treatedin all respects as usual, and were of an ordinary breed. I deemed itmy duty to explain--which I did, though palsied would have been mytongue if I could have foreseen the consequences. Bewailing theirprevious ignorance of the advantages of combining their industries, myparents at once took measures to repair the error. My mother removedher studio to a wing of the factory building and my duties inconnection with the business ceased; I was no longer required todispose of the bodies of the small superfluous, and there was no needof alluring dogs to their doom, for my father discarded themaltogether, though they still had an honorable place in the name ofthe oil. So suddenly thrown into idleness, I might naturally havebeen expected to become vicious and dissolute, but I did not. Theholy influence of my dear mother was ever about me to protect me fromthe temptations which beset youth, and my father was a deacon in achurch. Alas, that through my fault these estimable persons shouldhave come to so bad an end!
Finding a double profit in her business, my mother now devoted herselfto it with a new assiduity. She removed not only superfluous andunwelcome babes to order, but went out into the highways and byways,gathering in children of a larger growth, and even such adults as shecould entice to the oilery. My father, too, enamored of the superiorquality of oil produced, purveyed for his vats with diligence andzeal. The conversion of their neighbors into dog-oil became, inshort, the one passion of their lives--an absorbing and overwhelminggreed took possession of their souls and served them in place of ahope in Heaven--by which, also, they were inspired.
So enterprising had they now become that a public meeting was held andresolutions passed severely censuring them. It was intimated by thechairman that any further raids upon the population would be met in aspirit of hostility. My poor parents left the meeting broken-hearted,desperate and, I believe, not altogether sane. Anyhow, I deemed itprudent not to enter the oilery with them that night, but sleptoutside in a stable.
At about midnight some mysterious impulse caused me to rise and peerthrough a window into the furnace-room, where I knew my father nowslept. The fires were burning as brightly as if the following day'sharvest had been expected to be abundant. One of the large cauldronswas slowly "walloping" with a mysterious appearance of self-restraint,as if it bided its time to put forth its full energy. My father wasnot in bed; he had risen in his night clothes and was preparing anoose in a strong cord. From the looks which he cast at the door ofmy mother's bedroom I knew too well the purpose that he had in mind.Speechless and motionless with terror, I could do nothing inprevention or warning. Suddenly the door of my mother's apartment wasopened, noiselessly, and the two confronted each other, bothapparently surprised. The lady, also, was in her night clothes, andshe held in her right hand the tool of her trade, a long,narrow-bladed dagger.
She, too, had been unable to deny herself the last profit which theunfriendly action of the citizens and my absence had left her. Forone instant they looked into each other's blazing eyes and then sprangtogether with indescribable fury. Round and round, the room theystruggled, the man cursing, the woman shrieking, both fighting likedemons--she to strike him with the dagger, he to strangle her with hisgreat bare hands. I know not how long I had the unhappiness toobserve this disagreeable instance of domestic infelicity, but atlast, after a more than usually vigorous struggle, the combatantssuddenly moved apart.
My father's breast and my mother's weapon showed evidences of contact.For another instant they glared at each other in the most unamiableway; then my poor, wounded father, feeling the hand of death upon him,leaped forward, unmindful of resistance, grasped my dear mother in hisarms, dragged her to the side of the boiling cauldron, collected allhis failing energies, and sprang in with her! In a moment, both haddisappeared and were adding their oil to that of the committee ofcitizens who had called the day before with an invitation to thepublic meeting.
Convinced that these unhappy events closed to me every avenue to anhonorable career in that town, I removed to the famous city ofOtumwee, where these memoirs are written with a heart full of remorsefor a heedless act entailing so dismal a commercial disaster.