CHAPTER XXX
No rough-and-ready surgery of the Del Mar sort obtained at Cedarwild,else Michael would not have lived. A real surgeon, skilful andaudacious, came very close to vivisecting him as he radically repairedthe ruin of a shoulder, doing things he would not have dared with a humanbut which proved to be correct for Michael.
"He'll always be lame," the surgeon said, wiping his hands and gazingdown at Michael, who lay, for the most part of him, a motionless prisonerset in plaster of Paris. "All the healing, and there's plenty of it,will have to be by first intention. If his temperature shoots up we'llhave to put him out of his misery. What's he worth?"
"He has no tricks," Collins answered. "Possibly fifty dollars, andcertainly not that now. Lame dogs are not worth teaching tricks to."
Time was to prove both men wrong. Michael was not destined to permanentlameness, although in after-years his shoulder was always tender, and, onoccasion, when the weather was damp, he was compelled to ease it with aslight limp. On the other hand, he was destined to appreciate to a greatprice and to become the star performer Harry Del Mar had predicted ofhim.
In the meantime he lay for many weary days in the plaster and abstainedfrom raising a dangerous temperature. The care taken of him wasexcellent. But not out of love and affection was it given. It wasmerely a part of the system at Cedarwild which made the institution sucha success. When he was taken out of the plaster, he was still deniedthat instinctive pleasure which all animals take in licking their wounds,for shrewdly arranged bandages were wrapped and buckled on him. And whenthey were finally removed, there were no wounds to lick; though deep inthe shoulder was a pain that required months in which to die out.
Harris Collins bothered him no more with trying to teach him tricks, and,one day, loaned him as a filler-in to a man and woman who had lost threeof their dog-troupe by pneumonia.
"If he makes out you can have him for twenty dollars," Collins told theman, Wilton Davis.
"And if he croaks?" Davis queried.
Collins shrugged his shoulders. "I won't sit up nights worrying abouthim. He's unteachable."
And when Michael departed from Cedarwild in a crate on an express wagon,he might well have never returned, for Wilton Davis was notorious amongtrained-animal men for his cruelty to dogs. Some care he might take of aparticular dog with a particularly valuable trick, but mere fillers-incame too cheaply. They cost from three to five dollars apiece. Worsethan that, so far as he was concerned, Michael had cost nothing. And ifhe died it meant nothing to Davis except the trouble of finding anotherdog.
The first stage of Michael's new adventure involved no unusual hardship,despite the fact that he was so cramped in his crate that he could notstand up and that the jolting and handling of the crate sent countlesstwinges of pain shooting through his shoulder. The journey was only toBrooklyn, where he was duly delivered to a second-rate theatre, WiltonDavis being so indifferent a second-rate animal man that he could neversucceed in getting time with the big circuits.
The hardship of the cramped crate began after Michael had been carriedinto a big room above the stage and deposited with nearly a score ofsimilarly crated dogs. A sorry lot they were, all of them scrubs andmost of them spirit-broken and miserable. Several had bad sores on theirheads from being knocked about by Davis. No care was taken of thesesores, and they were not improved by the whitening that was put on themfor concealment whenever they performed. Some of them howled lamentablyat times, and every little while, as if it were all that remained forthem to do in their narrow cells, all of them would break out intobarking.
Michael was the only one who did not join in these choruses. Long since,as one feature of his developing moroseness, he had ceased from barking.He had become too unsociable for any such demonstrations; nor did hepattern after the example of some of the sourer-tempered dogs in theroom, who were for ever bickering and snarling through the slats of theircages. In fact, Michael's sourness of temper had become too profoundeven for quarrelling. All he desired was to be let alone, and of this hehad a surfeit for the first forty-eight hours.
Wilton Davis had assembled his troupe ahead of time, so that the changeof programme was five days away. Having taken advantage of this to go tosee his wife's people over in New Jersey, he had hired one of the stage-hands to feed and water his dogs. This the stage-hand would have done,had he not had the misfortune to get into an altercation with a barkeeperwhich culminated in a fractured skull and an ambulance ride to thereceiving hospital. To make the situation perfect for what followed, thetheatre was closed for three days in order to make certain alterationsdemanded by the Fire Commissioners.
No one came near the room, and after several hours Michael grew aware ofhunger and thirst. The time passed, and the desire for food wassupplanted by the desire for water. By nightfall the barking and yelpingbecame continuous, changing through the long night hours to whimperingand whining. Michael alone made no sound, suffering dumbly in the bedlamof misery.
Morning of the second day dawned; the slow hours dragged by to the secondnight; and the darkness of the second night drew down upon a scene behindthe scenes, sufficient of itself to condemn all trained-animal acts inall theatres and show-tents of all the world. Whether Michael dreamed orwas in semi-delirium, there is no telling; but, whichever it was, helived most of his past life over again. Again he played as a puppy onthe broad verandas of _Mister_ Haggin's plantation bungalow at Meringe;or, with Jerry, stalked the edges of the jungle down by the river-bank tospy upon the crocodiles; or, learning from _Mister_ Haggin and Bob, andpatterning after Biddy and Terrence, to consider black men as lesser anddespised gods who must for ever be kept strictly in their places.
On the schooner _Eugenie_ he sailed with Captain Kellar, his secondmaster, and on the beach at Tulagi lost his heart to Steward of the magicfingers and sailed away with him and Kwaque on the steamer _Makambo_.Steward was most in his visions, against a hazy background of vessels,and of individuals like the Ancient Mariner, Simon Nishikanta, Grimshaw,Captain Doane, and little old Ah Moy. Nor least of all did Scrapsappear, and Cocky, the valiant-hearted little fluff of life gallantlybearing himself through his brief adventure in the sun. And it wouldseem to Michael that on one side, clinging to him, Cocky talked farragoin his ear, and on the other side Sara clung to him and chattered aninterminable and incommunicable tale. And then, deep about the roots ofhis ears would seem to prod the magic, caressing fingers of Steward thebeloved.
"I just don't I have no luck," Wilton Davis mourned, gazing about at hisdogs, the air still vibrating with the string of oaths he had at firstripped out.
"That comes of trusting a drunken stage-hand," his wife remarkedplacidly. "I wouldn't be surprised if half of them died on us now."
"Well, this is no time for talk," Davis snarled, proceeding to take offhis coat. "Get busy, my love, and learn the worst. Water's what theyneed. I'll give them a tub of it."
Bucketful by bucketful, from the tap at the sink in the corner, he filleda large galvanized-iron tub. At sound of the running water the dogsbegan whimpering and yelping and moaning. Some tried to lick his handswith their swollen tongues as he dragged them roughly out of their cages.The weaker ones crawled and bellied toward the tub, and were over-trod bythe stronger ones. There was not room for all, and the stronger onesdrank first, with much fighting and squabbling and slashing of fangs.Into the foremost of this was Michael, slashing and being slashed, butmanaging to get hasty gulps of the life-saving fluid. Davis danced aboutamong them, kicking right and left, so that all might have a chance. Hiswife took a hand, laying about her with a mop. It was a pandemonium ofpain, for, their parched throats softened by the water, they were againable to yelp and cry out loudly all their hurt and woe.
Several were too weak to get to the water, so it was carried to them anddoused and splashed into their mouths. It seemed that they would neverbe satisfied. They lay in collapse all about the room, but every littlewhile one or another would crawl o
ver to the tub and try to drink more.In the meantime Davis had started a fire and filled a caldron withpotatoes.
"The place stinks like a den of skunks," Mrs. Davis observed, pausingfrom dabbing the end of her nose with a powder-puff. "Dearest, we'lljust have to wash them."
"All right, sweetheart," her husband agreed. "And the quicker thebetter. We can get through with it while the potatoes are boiling andcooling. I'll scrub them and you dry them. Remember that pneumonia, anddo it thoroughly."
It was quick, rough bathing. Reaching out for the dogs nearest him, heflung them in turn into the tub from which they had drunk. When theywere frightened, or when they objected in any way, he rapped them on thehead with the scrubbing brush or the bar of yellow laundry soap withwhich he was lathering them. Several minutes sufficed for a dog.
"Drink, damn you, drink--have some more," he would say, as he shovedtheir heads down and under the dirty, soapy water.
He seemed to hold them responsible for their horrible condition, to lookupon their filthiness as a personal affront.
Michael yielded to being flung into the tub. He recognized that bathswere necessary and compulsory, although they were administered in muchbetter fashion at Cedarwild, while Kwaque and Steward had made a sort oflove function of it when they bathed him. So he did his best to endurethe scrubbing, and all might have been well had not Davis soused himunder. Michael jerked his head up with a warning growl. Davis suspendedhalf-way the blow he was delivering with the heavy brush, and emitted alow whistle of surprise.
"Hello!" he said. "And look who's here!--Lovey, this is the Irishterrier I got from Collins. He's no good. Collins said so. Just a fill-in.--Get out!" he commanded Michael. "That's all you get now, Mr. FreshDog. But take it from me pretty soon you'll be getting it fast enough tomake you dizzy."
While the potatoes were cooling, Mrs. Davis kept the hungry dogs warnedaway by sharp cries. Michael lay down sullenly to one side, and took nopart in the rush for the trough when permission was given. Again Davisdanced among them, kicking away the stronger and the more eager.
"If they get to fighting after all we've done for them, kick in theirribs, lovey," he told his wife.
"There! You would, would you?"--this to a large black dog, accompaniedby a savage kick in the side. The animal yelped its pain as it fledaway, and, from a safe distance, looked on piteously at the steamingfood.
"Well, after this they can't say I don't never give my dogs a bath,"Davis remarked from the sink, where he was rinsing his arms. "What d'yesay we call it a day's work, my dear?" Mrs. Davis nodded agreement. "Wecan rehearse them to-morrow and next day. That will be plenty of time.I'll run in to-night and boil them some bran. They'll need an extra mealafter fasting two days."
The potatoes finished, the dogs were put back in their cages for anothertwenty-four hours of close confinement. Water was poured into theirdrinking-tins, and, in the evening, still in their cages, they wereserved liberally with boiled bran and dog-biscuit. This was Michael'sfirst food, for he had sulkily refused to go near the potatoes.
* * * * *
The rehearsing took place on the stage, and for Michael trouble came atthe very start. The drop-curtain was supposed to go up and reveal thetwenty dogs seated on chairs in a semi-circle. Because, while they werebeing thus arranged, the preceding turn was taking place in front of thedrop-curtain, it was imperative that rigid silence should be kept. Next,when the curtain rose on full stage, the dogs were trained to make agreat barking.
As a filler-in, Michael had nothing to do but sit on a chair. But he hadto get upon the chair, first, and when Davis so ordered him heaccompanied the order with a clout on the side of the head. Michaelgrowled warningly.
"Oh, ho, eh?" the man sneered. "It's Fresh Dog looking for trouble.Well, you might as well get it over with now so your name can be changedto Good Dog.--My dear, just keep the rest of them in order while I teachFresh Dog lesson number one."
Of the beating that followed, the least said the better. Michael put upa fight that was hopeless, and was thoroughly beaten in return. Bruisedand bleeding, he sat on the chair, taking no part in the performance andonly sullenly engendering a deeper and bitterer sourness. To keep silentbefore the curtain went up was no hardship for him. But when the curtaindid go up, he declined to join the rest of the dogs in their franticbarking and yelping.
The dogs, sometimes alone and sometimes in couples and trios and groups,left their chairs at command and performed the conventional dog trickssuch as walking on hind-legs, hopping, limping, waltzing, and throwingsomersaults. Wilton Davis's temper was short and his hand heavythroughout the rehearsal, as the shrill yelps of pain from the laggingand stupid attested.
In all, during that day and the forenoon of the next, three longrehearsals took place. Michael's troubles ceased for the time being. Atcommand, he silently got on the chair and silently sat there. "Whichshows, dearest, what a bit of the stick will do," Davis bragged to hiswife. Nor did the pair of them dream of the scandalizing part Michaelwas going to play in their first performance.
Behind the curtain all was ready on the full stage. The dogs sat ontheir chairs in abject silence with Davis and his wife menacing them toremain silent, while, in front of the curtain, Dick and Daisy Belldelighted the matinee audience with their singing and dancing. And allwent well, and no one in the audience would have suspected the full stageof dogs behind the curtain had not Dick and Daisy, accompanied by theorchestra, begun to sing "Roll Me Down to Rio."
Michael could not help it. Even as Kwaque had long before mastered himby the jews' harp, and Steward by love, and Harry Del Mar by theharmonica, so now was he mastered by the strains of the orchestra and thevoices of the man and woman lifting the old familiar rhythm, taught himby Steward, of "Roll Me Down to Rio." Despite himself, despite hissullenness, the forces compulsive opened his jaws and set all his throatvibrating in accompaniment.
From beyond the curtain came a titter of children and women that grewinto a roar and drowned out the voices of Dick and Daisy. Wilton Daviscursed unbelievably as he sprang down the stage to Michael. But Michaelhowled on, and the audience laughed on. Michael was still howling whenthe short club smote him. The shock and hurt of it made him break offand yelp an involuntary cry of pain.
"Knock his block off, dearest," Mrs. Davis counselled.
And then ensued battle royal. Davis struck shrewd blows that could beheard, as were heard the snarls and growls of Michael. The audience,under the sway of the comic, ignored Dick and Daisy Bell. Their turn wasspoiled. The Davis turn was "queered," as Wilton impressed it. Michael'sblock was knocked off within the meaning of the term. And the audience,on the other side of the curtain, was edified and delighted.
Dick and Daisy could not continue. The audience wanted what was behindthe curtain, not in front of it. Michael was taken off stage thoroughlythrottled by one of the stage-hands, and the curtain arose on the fullset--full, save for the one empty chair. The boys in the audience firstrealized the connection between the empty chair and the previous uproar,and began clamouring for the absent dog. The audience took up the cry,the dogs barked more excitedly, and five minutes of hilarity delayed theturn which, when at last started, was marked by rustiness and erraticnesson the part of the dogs and by great peevishness on the part of WiltonDavis.
"Never mind, honey," his imperturbable wife assured him in a stagewhisper. "We'll just ditch that dog and get a regular one. And, anyway,we've put one over on that Daisy Bell. I ain't told you yet what shesaid about me, only last week, to some of my friends."
Several minutes later, still on the stage and handling his animals, thehusband managed a chance to mutter to his wife: "It's the dog. It's himI'm after. I'm going to lay him out."
"Yes, dearest," she agreed.
The curtain down, with a gleeful audience in front and with the dogs backin the room over the stage, Wilton Davis descended to look for Michael,who, instead of cowering in some corner, stood between th
e legs of thestage-hand, quivering yet from his mishandling and threatening to fightas hard as ever if attacked. On his way, Davis encountered the song-and-dance couple. The woman was in a tearful rage, the man in a dry one.
"You're a peach of a dog man, you are," he announced belligerently."Here's where you get yours."
"You keep away from me, or I'll lay you out," Wilton Davis respondeddesperately, brandishing a short iron bar in his right hand. "Besides,you just wait if you want to, and I'll lay you out afterward. But firstof all I'm going to lay out that dog. Come on along and see--damn him!How was I to know? He was a new one. He never peeped in rehearsal. Howwas I to know he was going to yap when we arranged the set behind you?"
"You've raised hell," the manager of the theatre greeted Davis, as thelatter, trailed by Dick Bell, came upon Michael bristling from betweenthe legs of the stage-hand.
"Nothing to what I'm going to raise," Davis retorted, shortening his gripon the iron bar and raising it. "I'm going to kill 'm. I'm going tobeat the life out of him. You just watch."
Michael snarled acknowledgment of the threat, crouched to spring, andkept his eyes on the iron weapon.
"I just guess you ain't goin' to do anything of the sort," the stage-handassured Davis.
"It's my property," the latter asserted with an air of legalconvincingness.
"And against it I'm goin' to stack up my common sense," was the stage-hand's reply. "You tap him once, and see what you'll get. Dogs is dogs,and men is men, but I'm damned if I know what you are. You can't pulloff rough stuff on that dog. First time he was on a stage in his life,after being starved and thirsted for two days. Oh, I know, Mr. Manager."
"If you kill the dog it'll cost you a dollar to the garbage man to getrid of the carcass," the manager took up.
"I'll pay it gladly," Davis said, again lifting the iron bar. "I've gotsome come-back, ain't I?"
"You animal guys make me sick," the stage-hand uttered. "You just makeme draw the line somewheres. And here it is: you tap him once with thatbaby crowbar, and I'll tap you hard enough to lose me my job and to sendyou to hospital."
"Now look here, Jackson . . . " the manager began threateningly.
"You can't say nothin' to me," was the retort. "My mind's made up. Ifthat cheap guy lays a finger on that dog I'm just sure goin' to lose myjob. I'm gettin tired anyway of seein' these skates beatin' up theiranimals. They've made me sick clean through."
The manager looked to Davis and shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
"There's no use pulling off a rough-house," he counselled. "I don't wantto lose Jackson and he'll put you into hospital if he ever gets started.Send the dog back where you got him. Your wife's told me about him.Stick him into a box and send him back collect. Collins won't mind.He'll take the singing out of him and work him into something."
Davis, with another glance at the truculent Jackson, wavered.
"I'll tell you what," the manager went on persuasively. "Jackson willattend to the whole thing, box him up, ship him, everything--won't you,Jackson?"
The stage-hand nodded curtly, then reached down and gently caressedMichael's bruised head.
"Well," Davis gave in, turning on his heel, "they can make fools ofthemselves over dogs, them that wants to. But when they've been in thebusiness as long as I have . . . "