IV: _Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog_
"Ambrose! Ambrose dear!" The new Mrs. Pottle put down the book she wasreading--Volume Dec to Erd of the encyclopedia.
"Yes, Blossom dear." Mr. Pottle's tone was fraught with the tendersolicitude of the recently wed. He looked up from his book--Volume Odeto Pay of the encyclopedia.
"Ambrose, we must get a dog!"
"A dog, darling?"
His tone was still tender but a thought lacking in warmth. His smile, hehoped, conveyed the impression that while he utterly approved ofBlossom, herself, personally, her current idea struck no responsivechord in his bosom.
"Yes, a dog."
She sighed as she gazed at a large framed steel-engraving of Landseer'sSt. Bernards that occupied a space on the wall until recently tenantedby a crayon enlargement of her first husband in his lodge regalia.
"Such noble creatures," she sighed. "So intelligent. And so loyal."
"In the books they are," murmured Mr. Pottle.
"Oh, Ambrose," she protested with a pout. "How can you say such a thing?Just look at their big eyes, so full of soul. What magnificent animals!So full of understanding and fidelity and--and----"
"Fleas?" suggested Mr. Pottle.
Her glance was glacial.
"Ambrose, you are positively cruel," she said, tiny, injured tearsgathering in her wide blue eyes. He was instantly penitent.
"Forgive me, dear," he begged. "I forgot. In the books they don't have'em, do they? You see, precious, I don't take as much stock in books asI used to. I've been fooled so often."
"They're lovely books," said Mrs. Pottle, somewhat mollified. "You saidyourself that you adore dog stories."
"Sure I do, honey," said Mr. Pottle, "but a man can like stories aboutelephants without wanting to own one, can't he?"
"A dog is not an elephant, Ambrose."
He could not deny it.
"Don't you remember," she pursued, rapturously, "that lovely book,'Hero, the Collie Beautiful,' where a kiddie finds a puppy in an ashbarrel, and takes care of it, and later the collie grows up and rescuesthe kiddie from a fire; or was that the book where the collie flew atthe throat of the man who came to murder the kiddie's father, and thefather broke down and put his arms around the collie's neck because hehad kicked the collie once and the collie used to follow him around withbig, hurt eyes and yet when he was in danger Hero saved him becausecollies are so sensitive and so loyal?"
"Uh huh," assented Mr. Pottle.
"And that story we read, 'Almost Human'," she rippled on fluidly, "aboutthe kiddie who was lost in a snow-storm in the mountains and the braveSt. Bernard that came along with bottles of spirits around its neck--St.Bernards always carry them--and----"
"Do the bottles come with the dogs?" asked Mr. Pottle, hopefully.
She elevated disapproving eyebrows.
"Ambrose," she said, sternly, "don't always be making jests aboutalcohol. It's so common. You know when I married you, you promised nevereven to think of it again."
"Yes, Blossom," said Mr. Pottle, meekly.
She beamed.
"Well, dear, what kind of a dog shall we get?" she asked briskly. Hefelt that all was lost.
"There are dogs and dogs," he said moodily. "And I don't know anythingabout any of them."
"I'll read what it says here," she said. Mrs. Pottle was pursuingculture through the encyclopedia, and felt that she would overtake it onalmost any page now.
"Dog," she read, "is the English generic term for the quadruped of thedomesticated variety of _canis_."
"Well, I'll be darned!" exclaimed her husband. "Is that a fact?"
"Be serious, Ambrose, please. The choice of a dog is no jesting matter,"she rebuked him, and then read on, "In the Old and New Testaments thedog is spoken of almost with abhorrence; indeed, it ranks among theunclean beasts----"
"There, Blossom," cried Mr. Pottle, clutching at a straw, "what did Itell you? Would you fly in the face of the Good Book?"
She did not deign to reply verbally; she looked refrigerators at him.
"The Egyptians, on the other hand," she read, a note of triumph in hervoice, "venerated the dog, and when a dog died they shaved their headsas a badge of mourning----"
"The Egyptians did, hey?" remarked Mr. Pottle, open disgust on his appleof face. "Shaved their own heads, did they? No wonder they all turned tomummies. You can't tell me it's safe for a man to shave his own head;there ought to be a law against it."
Mr. Pottle was in the barber business.
Unheedful of this digression, Mrs. Pottle read on.
"There are many sorts of dogs. I'll read the list so we can pick outours. You needn't look cranky, Ambrose; we're going to have one. Let mesee. Ah, yes. 'There are Great Danes, mastiffs, collies, dalmatians,chows, New Foundlands, poodles, setters, pointers, retrievers--Labradorand flat-coated--spaniels, beagles, dachshunds--I'll admit they arerather nasty; they're the only sort of dog I can't bear--whippets,otterhounds, terriers, including Scotch, Irish, Welsh, Skye and fox, andSt. Bernards.' St. Bernards, it says, are the largest; 'their ears aresmall and their foreheads white and dome-shaped, giving them the wellknown expression of benignity and intelligence.' Oh, Ambrose"--her eyeswere full of dreams--"Oh, Ambrose, wouldn't it be just too wonderful forwords to have a great, big, beautiful dog like that?"
"There isn't any too much room in this bungalow as it is," demurred Mr.Pottle. "Better get a chow."
"You don't seem to realize, Ambrose Pottle," the lady replied with someseverity, "that what I want a dog for is protection."
"Protection, my angel? Can't I protect you?"
"Not when you're away on the road selling your shaving cream. Then'swhen I need some big, loyal creature to protect me."
"From what?"
"Well, burglars."
"Why should they come here?"
"How about all our wedding silver? And then kidnapers might come."
"Kidnapers? What could they kidnap?"
"Me," said Mrs. Pottle. "How would you like to come home from Zanesvilleor Bucyrus some day and find me gone, Ambrose?" Her lip quivered at thethought.
To Mr. Pottle, privately, this contingency seemed remote. His bride wasnot the sort of woman one might kidnap easily. She was a plentiful ladyof a well developed maturity, whose clothes did not conceal her heroicmold, albeit they fitted her as tightly as if her modiste were ataxidermist. However, not for worlds would he have voiced thissacrilegious thought; he was in love; he preferred that she should thinkof herself as infinitely clinging and helpless; he fancied the role ofsturdy oak.
"All right, Blossom," he gave in, patting her cheek. "If my angel wantsa dog, she shall have one. That reminds me, Charley Meacham, the bossbarber of the Ohio House, has a nice litter. He offered me one or two orthree if I wanted them. The mother is as fine a looking spotted coachdog as ever you laid an eye on and the pups----"
"What was the father?" demanded Mrs. Pottle.
"How should I know? There's a black pup, and a spotted pup, and a yellowpup, and a white pup and a----"
Mrs. Pottle sniffed.
"No mungles for me," she stated, flatly, "I hate mungles. I want athoroughbred, or nothing. One with a pedigree, like that adorablyhandsome creature there."
She nodded toward the engraving of the giant St. Bernards.
"But, darling," objected Mr. Pottle, "pedigreed pups cost money. A dogcan bark and bite whether he has a family tree or not, can't he? Wecan't afford one of these fancy, blue-blooded ones. I've got notes atthe bank right now I don't know how the dooce I'm going to pay. Myshaving stick needs capital. I can't be blowing in hard-earned dough onpups."
"Oh, Ambrose, I actually believeyou--don't--care--whether--I'm--kidnaped--or--not!" his wife began, acatch in her voice. A heart of wrought iron would have been melted bythe pathos of her tone and face.
"There, there, honey," said Mr. Pottle, hastily, with an appropriateamatory gesture, "you shall have your pup. But remember this, BlossomPottle. He's yours. You are to ha
ve all the responsibility and care ofhim."
"Oh, Ambrose, you're so good to me," she breathed.
The next evening when Mr. Pottle came home he observed something brownand fuzzy nestling in his Sunday velour hat. With a smotheredexclamation of the kind that has no place in a romance, he dumped thething out and saw it waddle away on unsteady legs, leaving him sadlycontemplating the strawberry silk lining of his best hat.
"Isn't he a love? Isn't he just too sweet," cried Mrs. Pottle, emergingfrom the living room and catching the object up in her arms. "Come tomama, sweetie-pie. Did the nassy man frighten my precious Pershing?"
"Your precious what?"
"Pershing. I named him for a brave man and a fighter. I just know he'llbe worthy of it, when he grows up, and starts to protect me."
"In how many years?" inquired Mr. Pottle, cynically.
"The man said he'd be big enough to be a watch dog in a very few months;they grow so fast."
"What man said this?"
"The kennel man. I bought Pershing at the Laddiebrook-Sunshine Kennelsto-day." She paused to kiss the pink muzzle of the little animal; Mr.Pottle winced at this but she noted it not, and rushed on.
"Such an interesting place, Ambrose. Nothing but dogs and dogs and dogs.All kinds, too. They even had one mean, sneaky-looking dachshund there;I just couldn't trust a dog like that. Ugh! Well, I looked at all thedogs. The minute I saw Pershing I knew he was my dog. His little eyeslooked up at me as much as to say, 'I'll be yours, mistress, faithful tothe death,' and he put out the dearest little pink tongue and licked myhand. The kennel man said, 'Now ain't that wonderful, lady, the way he'staken to you? Usually he growls at strangers. He's a one man dog, allright, all right'."
"A one man dog?" said Mr. Pottle, blankly.
"Yes. One that loves his owner, and nobody else. That's just the kind Iwant."
"Where do I come in?" inquired Mr. Pottle.
"Oh, he'll learn to tolerate you, I guess," she reassured him. Then sherippled on, "I just had to have him then. He was one of five, but healready had a little personality all his own, although he's only threeweeks old. I saw his mother--a magnificent creature, Ambrose, big as aShetland pony and twice as shaggy, and with the most wonderfulappealing eyes, that looked at me as if it stabbed her to the heart tohave her little ones taken from her. And such a pedigree! It coverspages. Her name is Gloria Audacious Indomitable; the AudaciousIndomitables are a very celebrated family of St. Bernards, the kennelman said."
"What about his father?" queried Mr. Pottle, poking the ball of pup withhis finger.
"I didn't see him," admitted Mrs. Pottle. "I believe they are not livingtogether now."
She snuggled the pup to her capacious bosom.
"So," she said, "its whole name is Pershing Audacious Indomitable, isn'tit, tweetums?"
"It's a swell name," admitted Mr. Pottle. "Er--Blossom dear, how muchdid he cost?"
She brought out the reply quickly, almost timidly.
"Fifty dollars."
"Fif----" his voice stuck in his larynx. "Great Caesar's Ghost!"
"But think of his pedigree," cried his wife.
All he could say was:
"Great Caesar's Ghost! Fifty dollars! Great Caesar's Ghost!"
"Why, we can exhibit him at bench shows," she argued, "and win hundredsof dollars in prizes. And his pups will be worth fifty dollars per pupeasily, with that pedigree."
"Great Caesar's Ghost," said Mr. Pottle, despondently. "Fifty dollars!And the shaving stick business all geflooey."
"He'll be worth a thousand to me as a protector," she declared,defiantly. "You wait and see, Ambrose Pottle. Wait till he grows up tobe a great, big, handsome, intelligent dog, winning prizes andprotecting your wife. He'll be the best investment we ever made, youmark my words."
Had Pershing encountered Mr. Pottle's eye at that moment the marrow ofhis small canine bones would have congealed.
"All right, Blossom," said her spouse, gloomily. "He's yours. You takecare of him. I wonder, I just wonder, that's all."
"What do you wonder, Ambrose?"
"If they'll let him visit us when we're in the poor house."
To this his wife remarked, "Fiddlesticks," and began to feed Pershingfrom a nursing bottle.
"Grade A milk, I suppose," groaned Mr. Pottle.
"Cream," she corrected, calmly. "Pershing is no mungle. Remember that,Ambrose Pottle."
* * * * *
It was a nippy, frosty night, and Mr. Pottle, after much chattering ofteeth, had succeeded in getting a place warm in the family bed, and wasfloating peacefully into a dream in which he got a contract for tencarload lots of Pottle's Edible Shaving Cream. "Just Lather, Shave andLick. That's All," when his wife's soft knuckles prodded him in theribs.
"Ambrose, Ambrose, do wake up. Do you hear that?"
He sleepily opened a protesting eye. He heard faint, plaintive, peepingsounds somewhere in the house.
"It's that wretched hound," he said crossly.
"Pershing is not a hound, Ambrose Pottle."
"Oh, all right, Blossom, ALL RIGHT. It's that noble creature, G'night."
But the knuckles tattooed on his drowsy ribs again.
"Ambrose, he's lonesome."
No response.
"Ambrose, little Pershing is lonesome."
"Well, suppose you go and sing him to sleep."
"Ambrose! And us married only a month!"
Mr. Pottle sat up in bed.
"Is he your pup," he demanded, oratorically, "or is he not your pup,Mrs. Pottle? And anyhow, why pamper him? He's all right. Didn't I walksix blocks in the cold to a grocery store to get a box for his bed?Didn't you line it with some of my best towels? Isn't it under a nice,warm stove? What more can a hound----"
"Ambrose!"
"----noble creature, expect?"
He dived into his pillow as if it were oblivion.
"Ambrose," said his wife, loudly and firmly, "Pershing is lonesome.Thoroughbreds have such sensitive natures. If he thought we were lyinghere neglecting him, it wouldn't surprise me a bit if he died of abroken heart before morning. A pedigreed dog like Pershing has thefeelings of a delicate child."
Muffled words came from the Pottle pillow.
"Well, whose one man dog is he?"
Mrs. Pottle began to sniffle audibly.
"I d-don't believe you'd c-care if I got up and c-caught my d-death ofc-cold," she said. "You know how easily I c-chill, too. But I c-can'tleave that poor motherless little fellow cry his heart out in that big,dark, lonely kitchen. I'll just have to get up and----"
She stirred around as if she really intended to. The chivalrous Mr.Pottle heaved up from his pillow like an irate grampus from the depthsof a tank.
"I'll go," he grumbled, fumbling around with goose-fleshed limbs for hischilly slippers. "Shall I tell him about Little Red Riding Hood orGoody Two Shoes?"
"Ambrose, if you speak roughly to Pershing, I shall never forgive you.And he won't either. No. Bring him in here."
"Here?" His tone was aghast; barbers are aseptic souls.
"Yes, of course."
"In bed?"
"Certainly."
"Oh, Blossom!"
"We can't leave him in the cold, can we?"
"But, Blossom, suppose he's--suppose he has----"
The hiatus was expressive.
"He hasn't." Her voice was one of indignant denial. "Pedigreed dogsdon't. Why, the kennels were immaculate."
"Humph," said Mr. Pottle dubiously. He strode into the kitchen andreturned with Pershing in his arms; he plumped the small, bushy, whininganimal in bed beside his wife.
"I suppose, Mrs. Pottle," he said, "that you are prepared to take theconsequences."
She stroked the squirming thing, which emitted small, protesting bleats.
"Don't you mind the nassy man, sweetie-pie," she cooed. "Casting'spersions on poor li'l lonesome doggie." Then, to her husband,"Ambrose, how can you suggest such a thing? Don't stand there in thec
old."
"Nevertheless," said Mr. Pottle, oracularly, as he prepared to seekslumber at a point as remote as possible in the bed from Pershing, "I'llbet a dollar to a doughnut that I'm right."
Mr. Pottle won his doughnut. At three o'clock in the morning, with themercury flirting with the freezing mark, he suddenly surged up from hispillow, made twitching motions with limbs and shoulders, and stalked outinto the living room, where he finished the night on a hard-boiled armycot, used for guests.
* * * * *
As the days hurried by, he had to admit that the kennel man'spredictions about the rapid growth of the animal seemed likely offulfillment. In a very few weeks the offspring of Gloria AudaciousIndomitable had attained prodigious proportions.
"But, Blossom," said Mr. Pottle, eyeing the animal as it gnawedindustriously at the golden oak legs of the player piano, "isn't hegrowing in a sort of funny way?"
"Funny way, Ambrose?"
"Yes, dear; funny way. Look at his legs."
She contemplated those members.
"Well?"
"They're kinda brief, aren't they, Blossom?"
"Naturally. He's no giraffe, Ambrose. Young thoroughbreds have smalllegs. Just like babies."
"But he seems so sorta long in proportion to his legs," said Mr. Pottle,critically. "He gets to look more like an overgrown caterpillar everyday."
"You said yourself, Ambrose, that you know nothing about dogs," his wifereminded him. "The legs always develop last. Give Pershing a chance toget his growth; then you'll see."
Mr. Pottle shrugged, unconvinced.
"It's time to take Pershing out for his airing," Mrs. Pottle observed.
A fretwork of displeasure appeared on the normally bland brow of Mr.Pottle.
"Lotta good that does," he grunted. "Besides, I'm getting tired ofleading him around on a string. He's so darn funny looking; the boys arebeginning to kid me about him."
"Do you want me to go out," asked Mrs. Pottle, "with this heavy cold?"
"Oh, all right," said Mr. Pottle blackly.
"Now, Pershing precious, let mama put on your li'l blanket so you can gofor a nice li'l walk with your papa."
"I'm not his papa," growled Mr. Pottle, rebelliously. "I'm no relationof his."
However, the neighbors along Garden Avenue presently spied a short,rotund man, progressing with reluctant step along the street, in hishand a leathern leash at the end of which ambled a pup whose physiquewas the occasion of some discussion among the dog-fanciers who beheldit.
* * * * *
"Blossom," said Mr. Pottle--it was after Pershing had outgrown two boxesand a large wash-basket--"you may say what you like but that dog ofyours looks funny to me."
"How can you say that?" she retorted. "Just look at that long heavycoat. Look at that big, handsome head. Look at those knowing eyes, as ifhe understood every word we're saying."
"But his legs, Blossom, his legs!"
"They are a wee, tiny bit short," she confessed. "But he's still in hisinfancy. Perhaps we don't feed him often enough."
"No?" said Mr. Pottle with a rising inflection which had the perfume ofsarcasm about it, "No? I suppose seven times a day, including once inthe middle of the night isn't often enough?"
"Honestly, Ambrose, you'd think you were an early Christian martyr beingdevoured by tigers to hear all the fuss you make about getting up justonce for five or ten minutes in the night to feed poor, hungry littlePershing."
"It hardly seems worth it," remarked Mr. Pottle, "with him turning outthis way."
"What way?"
"Bandy-legged."
"St. Bernards," she said with dignity, "do not run to legs. Mungles maybe all leggy, but not full blooded St. Bernards. He's a baby, rememberthat, Ambrose Pottle."
"He eats more than a full grown farm hand," said Mr. Pottle. "And steakat fifty cents a pound!"
"You can't bring up a delicate dog like Pershing on liver," said Mrs.Pottle, crushingly. "Now run along, Ambrose, and take him for a goodairing, while I get his evening broth ready."
"They extended that note of mine at the Bank, Blossom," said Mr. Pottle.
"Don't let him eat out of ash cans, and don't let him associate withmungles," said Mrs. Pottle.
Mr. Pottle skulked along side-streets, now dragging, now being draggedby the muscular Pershing. It was Mr. Pottle's idea to escape theattention of his friends, of whom there were many in Granville, and who,of late, had shown a disposition to make remarks about his eveningpromenade that irked his proud spirit. But, as he rounded the corner ofCottage Row, he encountered Charlie Meacham, tonsorialist, dog-fancier,wit.
"Evening, Ambrose."
"Evening, Charlie."
Mr. Pottle tried to ignore Pershing, to pretend that there was noconnection between them, but Pershing reared up on stumpy hind legs andsought to embrace Mr. Meacham.
"Where'd you get the pooch?" inquired Mr. Meacham, with some interest.
"Wife's," said Mr. Pottle, briefly.
"Where'd she find it?"
"Didn't find him. Bought him at Laddiebrook-Sunshine Kennels."
"Oho," whistled Mr. Meacham.
"Pedigreed," confided Mr. Pottle.
"You don't tell me!"
"Yep. Name's Pershing."
"Name's what?"
"Pershing. In honor of the great general."
Mr. Meacham leaned against a convenient lamp-post; he seemed of a suddenovercome by some powerful emotion.
"What's the joke?" asked Mr. Pottle.
"Pershing!" Mr. Meacham was just able to get out. "Oh, me, oh my. That'srich. That's a scream."
"Pershing," said Mr. Pottle, stoutly, "Audacious Indomitable. You oughtto see his pedigree."
"I'd like to," said Mr. Meacham, "I certainly would like to."
He was studying the architecture of Pershing with the cool appraisingeye of the expert. His eye rested for a long time on the short legs andlong body.
"Pottle," he said, thoughtfully, "haven't they got a dachshund up atthose there kennels?"
Mr. Pottle knitted perplexed brows.
"I believe they have," he said. "Why?"
"Oh, nothing," replied Mr. Meacham, struggling to keep a grip on hisemotions which threatened to choke him, "Oh, nothing." And he went off,with Mr. Pottle staring at his shoulder blades which titillated oddly asMr. Meacham walked.
Mr. Pottle, after a series of tugs-of-war, got his charge home. A worrywormed its way into his brain like an auger into a pine plank. The worrybecame a suspicion. The suspicion became a horrid certainty. Gallant manthat he was, and lover, he did not mention it to Blossom.
But after that the evening excursion with Pershing became his cross andhis wormwood. He pleaded to be allowed to take Pershing out after dark;Blossom wouldn't hear of it; the night air might injure his pedigreedlungs. In vain did he offer to hire a man--at no matter what cost--totake his place as companion to the creature which daily grew morepronounced and remarkable as to shape. Blossom declared that she wouldentrust no stranger with her dog; a Pottle, and a Pottle only, couldescort him. The nightly pilgrimage became almost unendurable after atotal stranger, said to be a Dubuque traveling man, stopped Mr. Pottleon the street one evening and asked, gravely:
"I beg pardon, sir, but isn't that animal a peagle?"
"He is not a beagle," said Mr. Pottle, shortly.
"I didn't say 'beagle'," the stranger smiled, "I said'peagle'--p-e-a-g-l-e."
"What's that?"
"A peagle," answered the stranger, "is a cross between a pony and abeagle." It took three men to stop the fight.
Pershing, as Mr. Pottle perceived all too plainly, was growing morecurious and ludicrous to the eye every day. He had the enormous head,the heavy body, the shaggy coat, and the benign, intellectual face ofhis mother; but alas, he had the bandy, caster-like legs of his putativefather. He was an anti-climax. Everybody in Granville, save Blossomalone, seemed to realize the stark, the awful truth about Pershing's
ancestry. Even he seemed to realize his own sad state; he wore ashamefaced look as he trotted by the side of Ambrose Pottle; Mr.Pottle's own features grew hang-dog. Despite her spouse's hints, Blossomnever lost faith in Pershing.
"Just you wait, Ambrose," she said. "One of these fine days you'll wakeup and find he has developed a full grown set of limbs."
"Like a tadpole, I suppose," he said grimly.
"Joke all you like, Ambrose. But mark my words: you'll be proud ofPershing. Just look at him there, taking in every word we say. Why,already he can do everything but speak. I just know I could count on himif I was in danger from burglars or kidnapers or anything. I'll feel somuch safer with him in the house when you take your trip East nextmonth."
"The burglar that came on him in the dark would be scared to death,"mumbled Mr. Pottle. She ignored this aside.
"Now, Ambrose," she said, "take the comb and give him a good combing. Imay enter him in a bench show next month."
"You ought to," remarked Mr. Pottle, as he led Pershing away, "he lookslike a bench."
It was with a distinct sense of escape that Mr. Pottle some weeks latertook a train for Washington where he hoped to have patented andtrade-marked his edible shaving cream, a discovery he confidentlyexpected to make his fortune.
"Good-by, Ambrose," said Mrs. Pottle. "I'll write you every day howPershing is getting along. At the rate he's growing you won't know himwhen you come back. You needn't worry about me. My one man dog willguard me, won't you, sweetie-pie? There now, give your paw to PapaPottle."
"I'm not his papa, I tell you," cried Mr. Pottle with some passion as hegrabbed up his suit-case and crunched down the gravel path.
In all, his business in Washington kept him away from his home fortwenty-four days. While he missed the society of Blossom, somehow heexperienced a delicious feeling of freedom from care, shame andresponsibility as he took his evening stroll about the capital. His tripwas a success; the patent was secured, the trade-mark duly registered.The patent lawyer, as he pocketed his fee, perhaps to salve hisconscience for its size, produced from behind a law book a bottle of anancient and once honorable fluid and pressed it on Mr. Pottle.
"I promised the wife I'd stay on the sprinkling cart," demurred Mr.Pottle.
"Oh, take it along," urged the patent lawyer. "You may need it for acold one of these days."
It occurred to Mr. Pottle that if there is one place in the world a manmay catch his death of cold it is on a draughty railroad train, andwouldn't it be foolish of him with a fortune in his grasp, so to speak,not to take every precaution against a possibly fatal illness? Besideshe knew that Blossom would never permit him to bring the bottle intotheir home. He preserved it in the only way possible under thecircumstances. When the train reached Granville just after midnight, Mr.Pottle skipped blithely from the car, made a sweeping bow to a milk can,cocked his derby over his eye, which was uncommonly bright and playful,and started for home with the meticulous but precarious step of thetight-rope walker.
It was his plan, carefully conceived, to steal softly as thistledownfalling on velvet, into his bungalow without waking the sleepingBlossom, to spend the night on the guest cot, to spring up, fresh as adewy daisy in the morn, and wake his wife with a smiling and coherentaccount of his trip.
Very quietly he tip-toed along the lawn leading to his front door, hislatch key out and ready. But as he was about to place a noiseless footon his porch, something vast, low and dark barred his path, and a bassand hostile growl brought him to an abrupt halt.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't li'l Pershin'," said Mr. Pottle,pleasantly, but remembering to pitch his voice in a low key. "Waiting onthe porch to welcome Papa Pottle home! Nice li'l Pershin'."
"Grrrrrrr Grrrrrrrrrr Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," replied Pershing. He continuedto bar the path, to growl ominously, to bare strong white teeth in themoonlight. In Mr. Pottle's absence he had grown enormously in head andbody; but not in leg.
"Pershin'," said Mr. Pottle, plaintively, "can it be that you haveforgotten Papa Pottle? Have you forgotten nice, kind mans that took youfor pretty walks? That fed you pretty steaks? That gave you prettybaths? Nice li'l Pershin', nice li'l----"
Mr. Pottle reached down to pat the shaggy head and drew back his handwith something that would pass as a curse in any language; Pershing hadgiven his finger a whole-hearted nip.
"You low-down, underslung brute," rasped Mr. Pottle. "Get out of my wayor I'll kick the pedigree outa you."
Pershing's growl grew louder and more menacing. Mr. Pottle hesitated; hefeared Blossom more than Pershing. He tried cajolery.
"Come, come, nice li'l St. Bernard. Great, big, noble St. Bernard. Comefor li'l walk with Papa Pottle. Nice Pershin', nice Pershin', you dirtycur----"
This last remark was due to the animal's earnest but only partiallysuccessful effort to fasten its teeth in Mr. Pottle's calf. Pershinggave out a sharp, disappointed yelp.
A white, shrouded figure appeared at the window.
"Burglar, go away," it said, shrilly, "or I'll sic my savage St. Bernardon you."
"He's already sicced, Blottom," said a doleful voice. "It's me, Blottom.Your Ambrose."
"Why, Ambrose! How queer your voice sounds! Why don't you come in."
"Pershing won't let me," cried Mr. Pottle. "Call him in."
"He won't come," she wailed, "and I'm afraid of him at night like this."
"Coax him in."
"He won't coax."
"Bribe him with food."
"You can't bribe a thoroughbred."
Mr. Pottle put his hands on his hips, and standing in the exact centerof his lawn, raised a high, sardonic voice.
"Oh, yes," he said, "oh, dear me, yes, I'll live to be proud ofPershing. Oh, yes indeed. I'll live to love the noble creature. I'll beglad I got up on cold nights to pour warm milk into his dear littlestummick. Oh, yes. Oh, yes, he'll be worth thousands to me. Here I godown to Washington, and work my head to the bone to keep a roof over us,and when I get back I can't get under it. If you ask me, Mrs. BlottomPottle nee Gallup, if you ask me, that precious animal of yours, thatnoble creature is the muttiest mutt that ever----"
"Ambrose!" Her edged voice clipped his oration short. "You've beendrinking!"
"Well," said Mr. Pottle in a bellowing voice, "I guess a hound like thatis enough to drive a person to drink. G'night, Blottom. I'm going tosleep in the flower bed. Frozen petunias will be my pillow. When I'mdead and gone, be kind to little Pershing for my sake."
"Ambrose! Stop. Think of the neighbors. Think of your health. Come intothe house this minute."
He tried to obey her frantic command, but the low-lying, far-flung bulkof Pershing blocked the way, a growling, fanged, hairy wall. Mr. Pottleretreated to the flower bed.
"What was it the Belgiums said?" he remarked. "They shall not pash."
"Oh, what'll I do, what'll I do?" came from the window.
"Send for the militia," suggested Mr. Pottle with savage facetiousness.
"I know," cried his wife, inspired, "I'll send for a veterinarian. He'llknow what to do."
"A veterinarian!" he protested loudly. "Five bones a visit, and us thejoke of Granville."
But he could suggest nothing better and presently an automobiledischarged a sleepy and disgusted dog-doctor at the Pottle homestead. Ittook the combined efforts of the two men and the woman to enticePershing away from the door long enough for Mr. Pottle to slip into hishouse. During the course of Mrs. Pottle's subsequent remarks, Mr. Pottlesaid a number of times that he was sorry he hadn't stayed out among thepetunias.
In the morning Pershing greeted him with an innocent expression.
"I hope, Mr. Pottle," said his wife, as he sipped black coffee, "thatyou are now convinced what a splendid watch dog Pershing is."
"I wish I had that fifty back again," he answered. "The bank won't giveme another extension on that note, Blossom."
She tossed a bit of bacon to Pershing who muffed it and retrieved itwith only slight damage to the pink roses on the rug.
"I can't stand this much longer, Blossom," he burst out.
"What?"
"You used to love me."
"I still do, Ambrose, despite all."
"You conceal it well. That mutt takes all your time."
"Mutt, Ambrose?"
"Mutt," said Mr. Pottle.
"See! He's heard you," she cried. "Look at that hurt expression in hisface."
"Bah," said Mr. Pottle. "When do we begin to get fifty dollars per pup.I could use the money. Isn't it about time this great hulking creaturedid something to earn his keep? He's got the appetite of a lion."
"Don't mind the nassy mans, Pershing. We're not a mutt, are we,Pershing? Ambrose, please don't say such things in his presence. Ithurts him dreadfully. Mutt, indeed. Just look at those big, gentle,knowing eyes."
"Look at those legs, woman," said Mr. Pottle.
He despondently sipped his black coffee.
"Blossom," he said. "I'm going to Chicago to-night. Got to have aconference with the men who are dickering with me about manufacturing myshaving cream. I'll be gone three days and I'll be busy every second."
"Yes, Ambrose. Pershing will protect me."
"And when I come back," he went on sternly, "I want to be able to getinto my own house, do you understand?"
"I warned you Pershing was a one man dog," she replied. "You'd bettercome back at noon while he's at lunch. You needn't worry about us."
"I shan't worry about Pershing," promised Mr. Pottle, reaching for hissuit-case.
He had not overstated how busy he would be in Chicago. His second daywas crowded. After a trip to the factory, he was closeted at his hotelin solemn conference in the evening with the president, a vice-presidentor two, a couple of assistant vice-presidents and their assistants, anda collection of sales engineers, publicity engineers, productionengineers, personnel engineers, employment engineers, and just plainengineers; for a certain large corporation scented profit in his shavingcream. They were putting him through a business third degree and he wasenjoying it. They had even reached the point where they were discussinghis share in the profits if they decided to manufacture his discovery.Mr. Pottle was expatiating on its merits.
"Gentlemen," he said, "there are some forty million beards every morningin these United States, and forty million breakfasts to be eaten by menin a hurry. Now, my shaving cream being edible, combines----"
"Telegram for Mr. Puddle, Mr. Puddle, Mr. Puddle," droned a bell hop,poking in a head.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," said Mr. Pottle. He hoped they would think it anoffer from a rival company. As he read the message his face grew white.Alarming words leaped from the yellow paper.
"_Come home. Very serious accident. Blossom._"
That was all, but to the recently mated Mr. Pottle it was enough. Hecrumpled the message with quivering fingers.
"Sorry, gentlemen," he said, trying to smile bravely. "Bad news fromhome. We'll have to continue this discussion later."
"You can just make the 10:10 train," said one of the engineers,sympathetically. "Hard lines, old man."
Granville's lone, asthmatic taxi coughed up Mr. Pottle at the door ofhis house; it was dark; he did not dare look at the door-knob. Histrembling hand twisted the key in the lock.
"Who's that?" called a faint voice. It was Blossom's. He thanked God shewas still alive.
He was in her room in an instant, and had switched on the light. She layin bed, her face, once rosy, now pale; her eyes, once placid, nowred-lidded and tear-swollen. He bent over her with tremulous anxiety.
"Honey, what's happened? Tell your Ambrose."
She raised herself feebly in bed. He thanked God she could move.
"Oh, it's too awful," she said with a sob. "Too dreadful for words."
"What? Oh, what? Tell me, Blossom dearest. Tell me. I'll be brave,little woman. I'll try to bear it." He pressed her fevered hands in his.
"I can hardly believe it," she sobbed. "I c-can hardly believe it."
"Believe it? Believe what? Tell me, Blossom darling, in Heaven's name,tell me."
"Pershing," she sobbed in a heart-broken crescendo, "Pershing has becomea mother!"
Her sobs shook her.
"And they're all mungles," she cried, "all nine of them."
* * * * *
Thunderclouds festooned the usually mild forehead of Mr. Pottle nextmorning. He was inclined to be sarcastic.
"Fifty dollars per pup, eh?" he said. "Fifty dollars per pup, eh?"
"Don't, Ambrose," his wife begged. "I can't stand it. To think with eyeslike that Pershing should deceive me."
"Pershing?" snorted Mr. Pottle so violently the toast hopped from thetoaster. "Pershing? Not now. Violet! Violet! Violet!"
Mrs. Pottle looked meek.
"The ash man said he'd take the pups away if I gave him two dollars,"she said.
"Give him five," said Mr. Pottle, "and maybe he'll take Violet, too."
"I will not, Ambrose Pottle," she returned. "I will not desert her nowthat she has gotten in trouble. How could she know, having been broughtup so carefully? After all, dogs are only human."
"You actually intend to keep that----"
She did not allow him to pronounce the epithet that was forming on hislips, but checked it, with----
"Certainly I'll keep her. She is still a one man dog. She can stillprotect me from kidnapers and burglars."
He threw up his hands, a despairing gesture.
* * * * *
In the days that followed hard on the heels of Violet's disgrace, Mr.Pottle had little time to think of dogs. More pressing cares weighed onhim. The Chicago men, their enthusiasm cooling when no longer under thespell of Mr. Pottle's arguments, wrote that they guessed that at thistime, things being as they were, and under the circumstances, they wereforced to regret that they could not make his shaving cream, but mightat some later date be interested, and they were his very truly. The banksent him a frank little message saying that it had no desire to go intothe barber business, but that it might find that step necessary if Mr.Pottle did not step round rather soon with a little donation for theloan department.
It was thoughts of this cheerless nature that kept Mr. Pottle tossinguneasily in his share of the bed, and with wide-open, worried eyes doingsums on the moonlit ceiling. He waited the morrow with numb pessimism.For, though he had combed the town and borrowed every cent he couldsqueeze from friend or foe, though he had pawned his favorite case ofrazors, he was three hundred dollars short of the needed amount. Threehundred dollars is not much compared to all the money in the world, butto Mr. Pottle, on his bed of anxiety, it looked like the Great Wall ofChina.
He heard the town clock boom a faint two. It occurred to him that therewas something singular, odd, about the silence. It took him minutes todecide what it was. Then he puzzled it out. Violet nee Pershing was notbarking. It was her invariable custom to make harrowing sounds at themoon from ten in the evening till dawn. He had learned to sleep throughthem, eventually. He pointed out to Blossom that a dog that barks allthe time is a dooce of a watch-dog, and she pointed out to him that adog that barks all the time thus advertising its presence and itsferocity, would be certain to scare off midnight prowlers. He wonderedwhy Violet was so silent. The thought skipped through his brain thatperhaps she had run away, or been poisoned, and in all his worry, hepermitted himself a faint smile of hope. No, he thought, I was bornunlucky. There must be another reason. It was borne into his brain cellswhat this reason must be.
Slipping from bed without disturbing the dormant Blossom, he crept onwary bare toes from the room and down stairs. Ever so faint chinkingsounds came from the dining room. With infinite caution Mr. Pottle slidopen the sliding door an inch. He caught his breath.
There, in a patch of moonlight, squatted the chunky figure of a maskedman, and he was engaged in industriously wrapping up the Pottle silverin bits of cloth. Now and then he paused in his labors to patcaressingly the head of Vio
let who stood beside him watching withfascinated interest, and wagging a pleased tail. Mr. Pottle was clampedto his observation post by a freezing fear. The busy burglar did not seehim, but Violet did, and pointing her bushel of bushy head at him, shelet slip a deep "Grrrrrrrrrrr." The burglar turned quickly, and amoonbeam rebounded from the polished steel of his revolver as heleveled it at a place where Mr. Pottle's heart would have been if it hadnot at that precise second been in his throat, a quarter of an inchsouth of his Adam's apple.
"Keep 'em up," said the burglar, "or I'll drill you like you was anoil-well."
Mr. Pottle's hands went up and his heart went down. The ultimate strawhad been added; the wedding silver was neatly packed in the burglar'sbag. Mr. Pottle cast an appealing look at Violet and breathed a prayerthat in his dire emergency her blue-blood would tell and she would flingherself with one last heroic fling at the throat of the robber. Violetreturned his look with a stony stare, and licked the free hand of thethief.
A thought wave rippled over Mr. Pottle's brain.
"You might as well take the dog with you, too," he said.
"Your dog?" asked the burglar, gruffly.
"Whose else would it be?"
"Where'd you get her?"
"Raised her from a pup up."
"From a pup up?"
"Yes, from a pup up."
The robber appeared to be thinking.
"She's some dog," he remarked. "I never seen one just like her."
For the first time in the existence of either of them, Mr. Pottle felt afaint glow of pride in Violet.
"She's the only one of her kind in the world," he said.
"I believe you," said the burglar. "And I know a thing or two aboutdogs, too."
"Really?" said Mr. Pottle, politely.
"Yes, I do," said the burglar and a sad note had softened the gruffnessof his voice. "I used to be a dog trainer."
"You don't tell me?" said Mr. Pottle.
"Yes," said the burglar, with a touch of pride, "I had the swellest dogand pony act in big time vaudeville once."
"Where is it now?" Mr. Pottle was interested.
"Mashed to bologny," said the burglar, sadly. "Train wreck. Lost everysingle animal. Like that." He snapped melancholy fingers to illustratethe sudden demise of his troupe. "That's why I took to this," he added."I ain't a regular crook. Honest. I just want to get together enoughcapital to start another show. Another job or two and I'll have enough."
Mr. Pottle looked his sympathy. The burglar was studying Violet witheyes that brightened visibly.
"If," he said, slowly, "I only had a trick dog like her, I could startagain. She's the funniest looking hound I ever seen, bar none. I canjust hear the audiences roaring with laughter." He sighed reminiscently.
"Take her," said Mr. Pottle, handsomely. "She's yours."
The burglar impaled him with the gimlet eye of suspicion.
"Oh, yes," he said. "I could get away with a dog like that, couldn't I?You couldn't put the cops on my trail if I had a dog like that with me,oh, no. Why, I could just as easy get away with Pike's Peak or a flockof Masonic Temples as with a dog as different looking as her. No,stranger, I wasn't born yesterday."
"I won't have you pinched, I swear I won't," said Mr. Pottle earnestly."Take her. She's yours."
The burglar resumed the pose of thinker.
"Look here, stranger," he said at length. "Tell you what I'll do. Justto make the whole thing fair and square and no questions asked, I'll buythat dog from you."
"You'll what?" Mr. Pottle articulated.
"I'll buy her," repeated the burglar.
Mr. Pottle was incapable of replying.
"Well," said the burglar, "will you take a hundred for her?"
Mr. Pottle could not get out a syllable.
"Two hundred, then?" said the burglar.
"Make it three hundred and she's yours," said Mr. Pottle.
"Sold!" said the burglar.
* * * * *
When morning came to Granville, Mr. Pottle waked his wife by gently,playfully, fanning her pink and white cheek with three bills of a largedenomination.
"Blossom," he said, and the smile of his early courting days had comeback, "you were right. Violet was a one man dog. I just found the man."
The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon, and other humorous tales Page 4