by Dodie Smith
At that moment the dogs heard a man’s voice inside the cottage. They turned and ran as fast as they could, along the road and then into a field.
“Are you hurt, Pongo?” cried Missis as they ran. Then she saw that he was limping. They stopped behind a haystack. Pongo’s leg was bleeding—the stone must have had a very sharp edge. But what hurt him most was the bruise on the bone. He was trembling with pain and rage.
Missis was terrified, but she did not let him see this. She licked his wound and said there was nothing a good rest would not cure.
“Rest? Where?” said Pongo.
Missis saw that the haystack was very loosely made. She scrabbled at it fiercely, saying, “Look, Pongo, you can creep in and get warm. Then sleep for a while. I will find us some food—I will, I will! The first dog I meet will help me.”
By now she had made a large hole in the haystack. Pongo looked at it longingly. But no! He could not let her go alone. He struggled to his feet, wincing with pain, and said, “I must come with you to find food. And I will bite that child.”
“No, Pongo, no!” cried Missis, horrified. “Remember he is only a very young human. All very young creatures are ignorantly cruel—often our dear puppies hurt me badly, not knowing they were doing so. To bite a human is the greatest crime a dog can commit. You shall not let that cruel, thoughtless child put such a sin on your conscience. Your pain and anger will pass, but the guilt would remain with you for always. ”
Pongo knew she was right, and already the desire to bite the child was passing. “But I won’t let you go alone,” he said.
“Then let us both rest a while first,” said crafty Missis. “Come on, there’s room for two.” And she crept into the haystack.
“We should find food first, or we shall be too weak to find it when we wake up,” said Pongo. But he followed her into the haystack.
“Just sleep for a few minutes, Pongo—while I keep guard,” said Missis coaxingly.
Pongo could fight on no longer. Sleep came to him while he thought he was still arguing.
Missis waited a few minutes, then crept out and pulled hay round Pongo to hide him. She no longer felt sleepy; she was far too anxious. Even her appetite had gone for the moment. Still, she knew she must find food for them both—and she had no idea how to, for she was almost sure there was no dog anywhere near to help her. But pretending to Pongo that she felt brave had made her really feel a little braver, and her tail was no longer down.
She could still see the thatched cottages, and she noticed some hens at the back of them. Perhaps the hens would have some stale crusts that she could—well, borrow. She went back.
The first cottage she reached was the one where the little boy lived. And now he was at the back, staring at her! This time, he had an even larger slab of bread and butter, with some jam on it. He ran towards her, holding it out.
“Perhaps he really means it now,” thought Missis. “Perhaps he’s sorry he hurt Pongo.” And she went forward hopefully—though well prepared to dodge stones.
The child waited until she was quite close. Then again he stooped for a stone. But he was on a patch of grass, with no stones handy. So, instead, he threw the slab of bread and butter. He threw it with rage, not love, but that made it no less valuable. Missis caught it neatly and bolted.
“Bless me,” she thought, “he’s just a small human who likes throwing things. His parents should buy him a ball.”
She took the bread and butter back to the haystack and laid it down by her sleeping husband’s nose. So far she had not even licked it, but now she let herself nibble off one very small corner. It tasted so glorious that her appetite came back with a rush, but she left all the rest for Pongo to find when he woke. Again she pulled the hay round him, and then ran to the road. But she saw a man outside the cottage where the little boy lived, so she did not dare to go back to visit the hens. She ran in the opposite direction.
It was now a very beautiful winter morning. Every blade of grass was silvered with hoarfrost and glittering in the newly risen sun. But Missis was far too worried to enjoy the beauty. The triumph of getting the bread was wearing off, and all sorts of fears were rushing at her.
Suppose Pongo was seriously injured? Suppose he was too lame to go on? Suppose she could find no food close at hand? If she had to go far, she knew she would get lost. She even got lost in Regent’s Park, almost every time the Dearlys were off the leash. They often laughed at the way she would stand still, wildly staring round for them. Suppose she never found her way back to Pongo and he searched and searched and never found her? Lost dog! The very words were terrible!
And was she even now quite sure of her way back to the haystack?
“It isn’t fair,” thought Missis. “No one as worried as I am ought to feel hungry too.” For she was ravenous—and thirsty. She tried licking the ice in a ditch, but it hurt her tongue without quenching her thirst.
She was beginning to think she must go back and make sure where the haystack was, when she came to an old red-brick archway leading to a long gravel drive. Her spirits rose. Surely this must be the entrance to some big country house, such as she had stayed at several times when she and Mrs. Dearly were both bachelors. Such houses had many dogs, large kitchens, plenty of food. Joyfully she ran through the archway.
She could see no house ahead of her because the drive twisted. It was overgrown with weeds, and it went on so long that she began to wonder if it really did lead to a house. Indeed, it was now so wild and neglected that it seemed more like a path through a wood than the approach to a house. And it was so strangely silent; never in her life had Missis felt quite so alone.
More and more frightened, she ran round one more bend—and suddenly she was out in the open, with the house in front of her.
It was very old, built of mellow red brick, like the archway, with many little diamond-paned windows and one great window that reached almost to the roof. The windows twinkling in the early morning sunshine looked cheerful and welcoming, but there was no sign of life anywhere. And there was grass growing in the cracks of the wide stone steps which led to the massive oak door.
“It’s empty!” thought Missis in despair.
But it was not empty. Looking out of an open window was a Spaniel, black except for his muzzle, which was grey with age.
“Good morning,” he said most courteously. “Can I be of any help to you, my dear?”
Hot Buttered Toast
IT was wonderful how quickly the Spaniel took in the story Missis poured out to him, for he had not heard any news by way of the Twilight Barking.
“Haven’t listened to it for years,” he said. “Indeed, I doubt if I could get it now. There isn’t another dog for miles. Anyway, Sir Charles needs me at twilight—he needs me almost all the time. I’m only off duty now because he’s in his bath.”
They were now in a large stone-floored kitchen, where the Spaniel had led Missis after inviting her to jump in through the window. He went on. “Breakfast before you tell me any more, young lady,” and led her to a large plate of meat.
“But it’s your breakfast,” said Missis, trying not to look as hungry as she felt.
“No, it isn’t. It’s my supper, if you really want to know. I’d no appetite—and I shan’t have any for breakfast, which will be served to me any minute. Tea’s my meal. Hurry up, my dear. It will be thrown away if you don’t eat it.”
Missis took one delicious gulp. Then she stopped. “My husband—”
The Spaniel interrupted her. “We’ll see about his breakfast later, Finish it all, my child.”
So Missis ate and ate and then had a long drink from a white pottery bowl. She had never seen a bowl like it.
“That’s an eighteenth century dog’s drinking bowl,” said the Spaniel, “handed down from dog to dog in this family. And now, before you get too sleepy, you’d better bring your husband here.”
“Oh, yes” said Missis eagerly. “Please tell me how to get back to the haystack.”
“I’m not very good at right and left,” said Missis, “especially left.”
The Spaniel smiled, then looked at her paws. “This will help you,” he said. “That paw with the pretty spot—that is your right paw.”
“Then which is my left paw?”
“Why, the other paw, of course.”
“Back or front?” asked Missis.
“Just forget your back paws.”
Missis was puzzled. Could she forget her back paws? And if she could, would it be safe?
The Spaniel went on. “Look at your front paws and remember: Right paw, spot. Left paw, no spot.”
Missis stared hard at her paws. “I will practise,” she said earnestly. “But please tell me how to turn left.”
“Turn on the side of the paw which does not have a spot.”
“Whichever way I am going?”
“Certainly,” said the Spaniel. “The paw with the spot will always be your right paw. You can depend on that.”
“If I turned towards you now, would I be turning left?” asked Missis, after thinking very hard.
“Yes, yes. Splendid!” said the Spaniel.
Missis then turned round and faced the other way. “But now you are on the side of the paw with the spot,” she said worriedly, “so my right paw has turned into my left.”
The Spaniel gave it up. “I will show you the haystack,” he said, and led her out through what once must have been a fine kitchen-garden but was now a mass of weeds. Beyond it were the fields. Missis could just see the thatched cottages and the haystack.
“It’s the only haystack,” said the Spaniel. “All the same, keep your eyes on it all the time you run. I would come with you, but my rheumatism prevents me—and Sir Charles will need me to carry his spectacle-case downstairs. We are an old, old couple, my dear. He is ninety, and I—according to a foolish human reckoning that one year of a dog’s life represents seven years of human life—I am a hundred and five. ”
“I should never have guessed it,” said Missis politely—and truthfully.
“Anyway, I’m still young enough to know a pretty dog when I see one,” said the Spaniel gallantly. “Now off you go for your husband. You’ll have no difficulty in finding your way back because you will see our chimneys from the haystack.”
“Right or left?” asked Missis brightly.
“In front of your delightful nose. If I’m not here, just take your husband into the kitchen and I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
Missis raced off happily across the frosty fields, never taking her eyes off the haystack and feeling very proud when she reached it without getting lost. Pongo was still heavily asleep, with the bread and butter by his nose.
Poor Pongo! Waking up was awful, what with his sleepiness, the pain in his leg, and his horror at learning Missis had been dashing about the countryside alone. But he felt better when she had told him the news, which she did while he ate the bread and butter. And though his leg hurt, he found he could run without limping.
“Which way do we go?” he asked as they came out of the haystack.
Missis looked worried. There were no chimneys ahead of her nose—because she was facing in exactly the opposite direction. But Pongo saw the chimneys and took her towards them. Just before they reached the kitchen-garden, Missis said, “Pongo, do dogs have spots on their right paws or on their left paws?”
“That depends on the dog,” said Pongo.
Missis shook her head. “It’s hopeless,” she thought. “How can I depend on a thing that depends?”
The Spaniel was waiting for them.
“I’ve settled Sir Charles by the fire,” he said, “so I’ve an hour or so to spare. Come to breakfast, my dear fellow.”
He led Pongo to the kitchen, where there was now another plate of food.
“Surely it’s your breakfast, sir,” said Pongo.
“Had mine with Sir Charles. Don’t as a rule take breakfast, but meeting your pretty wife gave me an appetite, so I accepted a couple of slices of bacon. Sir Charles was so pleased. Go ahead, my dear chap, I couldn’t eat another bite.”
So Pongo ate and ate and drank and drank.
“And now for a long sleep,” said the Spaniel.
He led them up a back staircase and along many passages till they came to a large sunny bedroom in which was a four-poster bed. Beside it was a round basket. “Mine,” said the Spaniel, “but I never use it. Sir Charles likes me on the bed. Luckily that’s made already because John—he’s our valet—is already off for his day out. Jump up, both of you.”
Pongo and Missis jumped onto the four-poster and relaxed in bliss.
“No one will come up here until this evening,” said the Spaniel, “because Sir Charles can’t manage the stairs until John gets back. The fire should last some hours yet—we always light it for Sir Charles to have his bath in front of it. No new-fangled plumbing in this house. Sleep well, my children.”
The sunlight, the firelight, the tapestried walls were all so beautiful that it seemed a waste not to stay awake and enjoy them. So they did—for nearly a whole minute. The next thing they knew was that the Spaniel was gently waking them. The sun was already down, the fire dead, the room a little chilly. Pongo and Missis stretched sleepily.
“What you need is tea,” said the Spaniel. “But first, a breath of air. Follow me.”
There was still a faint glow from the sunset as they wandered round the wintry, tangled garden. As Pongo looked back towards the beautiful old red-brick house, the Spaniel told them it was four hundred years old and that nobody now lived there but himself, Sir Charles, and the valet, John. Most of the rooms were shut up.
“But we dust them sometimes,” he said. “That’s a very long walk for me.”
The great window was lit by the flicker of firelight. “It’s in there we sit, mostly,” the Spaniel told them. “We should be warmer in one of the smaller rooms, but Sir Charles likes to be in the Great Hall.” A silvery bell tinkled. “There! He’s ringing for me. Tea’s ready. Now, do just as I tell you.”
He led them indoors and then into a large high room, at the far end of which was an enormous fire. In front of it sat an old gentleman, but they could not yet see him very well because there was a screen round the back of his chair.
“Please lie down at the back of the screen,” whispered the Spaniel. “Later Sir Charles will fall asleep and you can come closer to the fire.”
As Pongo and Missis tiptoed to the back of the screen, they noticed that there was a large table beside Sir Charles on which was his luncheon tray—finished with now, and neatly covered by a table-napkin-and everything necessary for tea. Water was already boiling in a silver kettle over a spirit lamp. Sir Charles filled the teapot and put the tea-cosy on. Then he lifted a silver cover from a plate on which there were a number of slices of bread. By now the Spaniel had joined him and was thumping his tail.
“Hungry, are you?” said Sir Charles. “Well, we’ve a good fire for our toast.”
Then he put a slice of bread on a toasting fork. It was no ordinary toasting fork, for it was made of iron and nearly four feet long. It was really meant for pushing logs into position. But it was just what Sir Charles needed, and he handled it with great skill, avoiding the Haming logs and toasting the bread where the wood glowed red hot. A slice of toast was ready in no time. Sir Charles buttered it thickly and offered a piece to the Spaniel, who ate it while Sir Charles watched.
Missis was a little surprised that the courteous Spaniel had not offered her the first piece. She was even more surprised when he received a second piece and ate that too, while Sir Charles watched. She began to feel very hungry—and very anxious. Surely the kind Spaniel had not invited them to tea just to watch him eat? Then a third piece of toast was offered—and this time Sir Charles happened to turn away. Instantly the Spaniel dropped the toast behind the screen. Piece after piece travelled this way to Pongo and Missis, with the Spani
el only eating one now and then—when Sir Charles happened to be looking. Missis felt ashamed of her hungry suspicions.
“Never known you with such a good appetite, my boy,” said the old gentleman delightedly. And he made slice after slice of toast until all the bread was gone. Then cakes were handed on in the same way. And then Sir Charles offered the Spaniel a silver bowl of tea. This was put down so close to the edge of the screen that Pongo and Missis were able to drink some while Sir Charles was looking the other way. When he saw the bowl empty, he filled it again and again so everyone had enough. Pongo and Missis had always had splendid food, but they had never before had hot buttered toast and sweet milky tea. It was a meal they always remembered.
At last Sir Charles rose stiffly, put another log on the fire, and then settled back in his chair and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep, and the Spaniel beckoned Pongo and Missis to the fire. They sat on the warm hearth and looked up at the old gentleman. His face was deeply lined and all the lines drooped, and somehow he had a look of the Spaniel—or the Spaniel had a look of Sir Charles. Both of them were lit by the firelight, and beyond them was the great window, now blue with evening.
We ought to be on our way,“ whispered Pongo to Missis. But it was so warm, so quiet, and they were both so full of buttered toast that they drifted into a light and delightful sleep.
Pongo awoke with a start. Surely someone had spoken his name?
The fire was no longer blazing brightly, but there was still enough light to see that the old gentleman was awake and leaning forward.
“Well, if that isn’t Pongo and his missis,” he murmured smilingly. “Well, Well! What a pleasure! What a pleasure!”
Missis had opened her eyes now.
The Spaniel whispered, “Don’t move, either of you.”
“Can you see them?” said the old gentleman, putting his hand on the Spaniel’s head. “If you can, don’t be frightened. They won’t hurt you. You’d have liked them. Let’s see, they must have died fifty years before you were born—more than that. They were the first dogs I ever knew. I used to ask my mother to stop the carriage and let them get inside—I couldn’t bear to see them running behind. So in the end, they just became house dogs. How often they sat there in the firelight. Hey, you two! If dogs can come back, why haven’t you come back before?”