by Dodie Smith
She had been watching the television, beginning to get the hang of it, with the Cadpig’s help. Then some tiny sound, close at hand, brought her attention back to her family. But the sound had not come from her family. There were now nearly thirty puppies, not so very much bigger than her own, just a few feet away, all staring at her hopefully.
“Goodness, they’re grubby,” was her first thought. “Didn’t their mothers teach them to wash themselves?”
Then she felt a pang of pity. What mother had any of them now? She smiled at them all—and they wrinkled their little noses in a return smile. Then she looked beyond then, to the larger pups. Some of the half-grown girls reminded her of herself at their age—so slim, so silly. They knew how to wash themselves but there were many things they didn’t know, many ways in which they needed a mother’s advice. And suddenly all the puppies were her puppies; she was their mother—just as Pongo had felt he was their father. And indeed the younger ones creeping closer and closer to her were now so mingled with her own that she could scarcely tell where her little family ended and her larger family began.
Drowsiness spread throughout the warm red room. Even the Baddun brothers dozed. They did not much like the programme that was on the television and wanted to be fresh for their very favourite programme, which was due later. Even Missis slept a little, knowing that Pongo would keep watch. At last only three pairs of eyes were open. Pongo was wide awake, thinking, thinking. Lucky was wide awake, for he thought of himself as a sentry, who must not sleep on duty. And the Cadpig was wide awake, watching her lovely, lovely television.
Suddenly there was a thunder of thumps on the front door. The sleeping pups awoke in alarm. The Baddun brothers lumbered to their feet and stumbled towards the door. But before they got there it had been flung open.
Outside, against the moonlit sky stood a figure in a long white cloak.
It was Cruella de Vil.
Sudden Danger
FOR a few seconds she stared into the dimly lit room. Then she shouted, “Saul! Jasper! Turn off that television! And turn on the light!”
“We can’t turn on the light because we’ve no electric bulbs left,” said Saul Baddun. “When the telly finishes, we go to bed.”
“And if we turn the telly off, there’ll be no light at all,” said Jasper Baddun.
“Well, turn the sound off, anyway,” said Cruella, angrily.
Jasper did as he was told, and the little figures moving on the screen were suddenly voiceless. The Cadpig yapped indignantly. Missis, who was crouching low in the midst of her family, instantly hushed her. Pongo, also crouched low, got ready to spring at Cruella if she attacked any pup. But she seemed scarcely to notice any of them. Those near her shrank back as she strode into the room.
“I’ve got a job for you, my lads,” she said to the Badduns. “The pups must be killed tonight—every single one of them.”
The Badduns gaped at her. “But they’re not big enough to be made into fur coats yet,” said Saul.
“The largest ones are, and the little ones can be made into gloves. Anyway, they’ve got to die—before someone finds them. There’s been so much in the papers about the Dearlys’ dogs. All England’s on the hunt for Dalmatians.”
“But how could anyone find them here?” said Jasper Baddun. “Why can’t they just stay on, growing bigger and bigger?”
“It’s too risky,” said Cruella. “Someone might hear them yapping and tell the police. My husband’s going to ship the skins abroad—except the ones I keep for my own coat. I shall have it reversible—Persian lamb one side and Dalmatian dog the other—and wear the dog inside until people forget about the Dearlys’ pups. When that happens, I’ll collect another lot and we’ll start our Dalmatian fur farm again. But this lot must be got rid of—quickly.”
“How?” said the Badduns, both together.
“Any way you like. Poison them, drown them, hit them on the head. Have you any chloroform in the larder?”
“Not a drop,” said Saul Baddun. “And no ether, either.”
“We can’t afford .luxuries, growled Jasper Baddun.
“Drown them, then.”
“Dogs can swim,” said Saul Baddun. “Anyway, the pond’s less than a foot deep.”
“Then you must hit them on the head,” said Cruella.
Saul Baddun had gone pale. “What, hit ninety-seven pups on the head?” he said shakily. “We couldn’t do it. Have pity, Mrs. de Vil. We’d be wore out.”
“Listen,” said Cruella de Vil. “I don’t care how you kill the little beasts. Hang them, suffocate them, drop them off the roof—good gracious, there are dozens of lovely ways. I only wish I’d time to do the job myself.”
“Couldn’t you make time, Mrs. de Vil?” said Jasper. “You’d do it so beautifuHy—it’d be a pleasure to watch you.”
Cruella shook her head. “I’ve got to get back to London.” Then a fiendish look came into her eyes. “Here’s an idea for you. Shut them up without food, and then they’ll kill each other. ”
“But they’d make such a horrible noise about it,” said Saul Baddun. “We’d never be able to hear the telly.”
“Besides, they’d damage each other’s skins,” said Cruella. “That would ruin their value. You must kill them carefully. Then you can start the skinning.”
“But we can’t skin them!” wailed Jasper. “We don’t know how.”
“My husband will show you,” said Cruella. “We’ll both drive down tomorrow night. And we shall count the bodies—just remember that, will you? If you’ve let even one pup escape, I’ll turn you out of Hell Hall. Now you’d better get busy. Good night.”
Fortunately, few of the pups knew enough Human to understand Cruella’s words fully, but they all felt she was evil. And as she made her way to the door she aimed a kick at a small pup who was dangerously close to her. It was more frightened than hurt, but it gave a loud wail of anguish. Several of the bigger pups snarled indignantly at Cruella. Lucky, remembering the time he had nibbled her ear, barked out hastily, “Don’t bite her, chaps She tastes hot!”
So Cruella got to the door unhurt. She flung it open, and the moonlight shone on her black-and-white hair and her absolutely simple white mink cloak. Then she looked back at the roomful of puppies.
“Good-bye, you horrid little beasts,” she said. “I shall like you so much better when you’re skins instead of pups. And I shall simply love the ones who are made into my own coat. How I’m looking forward to it!”
They saw her walk out past the pond which reflected the black house, and on to the great iron gates, which she unlocked and locked again behind her. Then, through the silent winter night, came the sound of a powerful car driving away, followed by one strident blast from the loudest motor-horn in England.
How well Pongo and Missis remembered that terrifying sound! It took them back to the happy evening when they had stood beside the striped black-and-white car on the Outer Circle. How safe and contented they had been then, little guessing what dangers lay ahead!
Jasper Baddun hurriedly shut the front door, saying, “If we’ve got to do the pups in, we’d better keep them all in one place.”
Pongo felt stunned. If only he could think! If only the Sheepdog were there to advise him!
Missis whispered, “If you wish to attack those villains, I will help you, Pongo.”
Lucky said quickly, “They always carry knives.”
Pongo’s brain was beginning to work. “If we attack them, they may kill us,” he whispered to Missis. “And then there will be no one to help the pups. Quiet! Let me think.”
The Badduns were talking together in low grunts.
“One thing’s certain,” said Jasper. “We can’t do it tonight or we shall miss ‘What’s My Crime?’ ”
It was their very favourite television programme. Two ladies and two gentlemen, in faultless evening dress, had to guess the crime committed by a lady or gentleman in equally faultless evening dress. Stern moralists said this programme w
as causing a crime wave and filling the prisons, because people committed crimes in the hope of being chosen as contestants. But crime is usually waving and the prisons are usually full, so probably “What’s My Crime?” had not made much dif ference. Both the Badduns longed to appear as contestants, but they knew they would never be chosen unless they committed a really original crime, and they had never been able to think of one.
“We could kill the pups after ‘What’s My Crime?’ Jasper,” said Saul. “We ought to do it tonight, while they’re sleepy. They’ll be more dangerous when they’re wide awake.”
“It’s a nuisance, that’s what it is,” said Jasper. “And whatever way we do it, we shall be exhausted. First the killing and then the skinning!”
“Maybe we’ll get the knack of the skinning,” said Saul. “Then we can skin while we watch the telly.”
“Still, ninety-seven pups!” said Jasper. Then a wild gleam came into his eyes. “Saul, I bet no one else has ever murdered ninety-seven Dalmatians. It might do the trick for us! It might get us onto ‘What’s My Crime?’ ”
“Now you’re talking!” said Saul Baddun. “You and me, in evening dress with carnations in our buttonholes—and all England watching us. But we must think out some really striking way of doing our crime. Could we skin them alive?”
“They’d never keep still,” said Jasper. “What about boiling them?”
Pongo whispered to Missis, “We shall have to attack. It’s our only hope.”
“I’ll get the biggest pups to help you,” said Lucky quietly. “We’ll all help. I can bite quite well.”
And then—something happened! The Cadpig, whose eyes were fixed on the silent television screen, gave three short, sharp barks. No human ear would have known that those barks meant “What’s My Crime?” but the Baddun brothers, startled by the noise, looked towards the Cadpig and, in doing so, noticed the television screen. Saul Baddun let out a roar of rage; Jasper Baddun gave a howl of misery. It was on! “What’s My Crime?”—but without any sound, of course. They were missing it, their favourite of all programmes, and just when for the first time they had hopes of appearing on it! They hurled themselves at the television set. Saul turned the sound on full blast. Jasper adjusted the picture. Then they flung themselves down on their mattresses, grunting with delight.
“They won’t stir for the next half-hour,” whispered Lucky.
At last Pongo’s brain sprang into full action! Instantly he whispered to Lucky, “March the pups out to the stableyard! Your mother and I will mount guard over the Badduns.”
Lucky whispered, “If we could go out through the larder, we could eat tomorrow’s breakfast on our way. That’s the door—by the fireplace. It’s bolted, but I expect you can unbolt it, can’t you, Father?”
Pongo had never even tried to unbolt a door, but he had seen the Sheepdog do it. “Yes, Lucky,” he said firmly. “I can unbolt it.”
They tiptoed across the kitchen. Then Pongo stood on his hind legs and took the bolt in his teeth. It would not budge. He rested his teeth and took a good look at the bolt in the light from the fire. He saw the knob was turned down and would have to be raised before the bolt would slide.
“Now we shan’t be long,” he said to Lucky, and again took the knob in his teeth. He raised it, tried to slide it. Still it would not slide. He thought, “Lucky will lose confidence in me,” and he dragged and dragged until he thought his teeth would break. Then he began to fear that if the bolt did shoot back it would make a loud noise. Just then there was a burst of applause from the television—someone had guessed a contestant. (He had stolen two hundred bath plugs from hotels.) Pongo made a desperate effort. The bolt shot back. The larder door swung open.
“I knew you’d do it, Father,” said Lucky proudly.
“Just a matter of knowing how,” said Pongo, running his tongue round his teeth to make sure they were all still there.
A cold draught came from the larder. It had been the dairy when Hell Hall was a farm, and there were wooden slats instead of windows. The moonlight, shining in through the slats, made bright stripes on the stone floor. Meat for the puppies’ breakfast was already set out in long troughs—because the Badduns hated working in the early morning. There were small troughs for the little pups and big ones for the larger pups.
Pongo said to Lucky, “Wait until I get back to your mother. Then, while she and I stand ready to attack the Badduns, march all the pups in here. Tell them no pup is to eat until the last pup has a place at a trough. I will join you then and give the word to start eating.”
It was remarkable how quickly the pups left the kitchen, under Seageant Lucky’s whispered directions. Row after row marched out, like children leaving a school hall after prayers, except that the big pups left first, as they were nearest the door. Pongo and Missis watched the Badduns anxiously, for the hundreds of little toenails made a clitter-clatter on the kitchen floor, and there were a few scuffles, snuffles, and snorts—though never even the smallest bark, for the pups guessed that their lives depended on their silence. But the Badduns had eyes and ears for nothing but television.
Lucky left his own brothers and sisters to the last—and last of all to leave was the Cadpig. She was an intelligent little puppy and quite understood that she had to escape, but oh, how she hated leaving the television! She went out backwards, still staring at the screen.
Then Pongo and Missis sped swiftly and silently across the big red kitchen. They looked back from the larder door and saw that the Badduns had not stirred.
“How much longer will ‘What’s My Crime?’ last?” whispered Pongo.
“Twenty minutes,” said the Cadpig promptly and wistfully.
Pongo and Missis closed the larder door. The bolt on the inside was low down and easy to manage. Pongo shot it home at once, while the pups looked on admiringly. Every pup had its place at a trough, but not one lick of food had been eaten.
“One, two, three—feed!” commanded Pongo.
In fifty-nine seconds flat every scrap of food had been eaten.
“But what about you and Mother?” said Lucky. “I think I can find the Badduns’ Sunday dinner.”
He found it on a shelf—two steaks, rather poor grade, but Pongo and Missis swiftly ate them. The Pongo gave troops the right to forage and led a search through the larder. Everything eatable was eaten, the big pups sharing with the little pups most fairly.
“Anything in that cupboard?” said Pongo at last.
“Only coke for the central-heating furnace,” said Lucky. “Well, the Badduns won’t find anything to eat tomorrow, will they?”
“Let them eat coke,” said Pongo.
The entire meal had taken nearly five minutes. Pongo now felt he must get his troops out of Hell Hall as fast as possible. There had been no time to think out plans for the future—he was counting on the Colonel’s advice. All that could be done now was to lead the pups to the Folly. The outer door of the larder was easily opened; then across the old orchard they went and in at the door which the Colonel had so thoughtfully propped open. Missis gave one backward glance at black Hell Hall under the full moon. What would the Badduns do when they found not one pup in the kitchen?
There was not room for ninety-seven pups on the ground floor of the Folly, nor would there have been in the crowded upstairs rooms, so Pongo marched everyone out onto the heath. As the last pup marched out, the Sheepdog arrived.
At first he thought Pongo had recklessly begun the escape too soon, but when he heard the true facts he praised Pongo highly and was particularly pleased that all pups had been fed before escaping.
“That was Sergeant Lucky’s idea,” said Pongo proudly.
“Good work, Sergeant-Major,” said the Colonel.
“But where are we to go?” asked Missis anxiously. “Look, the puppies are shivering.”
They were indeed, for though it was not freezing it seemed terribly cold to them all after the warm kitchen.
The Sheepdog looked worried—not that
anyone could see this, as his expressions were always hidden by hair. What was he to do, at a moment’s notice, with ninety-seven Dalmatian puppies and two full-grown Dalmatians? At last he said, “Our big barn for the night, anyway. Pups can keep warm in the straw. It’s only half a mile across the heath.”
Half a mile! How little to Pongo and Missis! How much, how terribly much to the tiny Cadpig! After even a few hundred yards, Pongo was in despair about the long journey to London which lay ahead.
The big pups ran along happily. The medium-sized pups did quite well. Even most of the smaller pups looked as if they were capable of a reasonably long walk. But the smallest pups of all, Pongo’s own family—how were they to walk over seventy miles? Lucky, Patch, Roly Poly, and the other boys struggled along bravely, but the girls stumbled and panted and had to have many rests. As for the Cadpig, she would never have reached the farm at all if the Sheepdog had not given her a lift. He lay down, and she climbed onto his back and held on to his long hair with her teeth. Even so, she nearly slipped off twice.
“She could never stay on our smooth backs,” said Missis to Pongo. “If only I could wheel her in a doll’s perambulator!”
“You couldn’t walk to London on your hind legs,” said Pongo, “even if we had a peramabulator.”
At last they reached the big barn at the back of the farm where the Colonel lived. The tired pups snuggled into the hay and straw and instantly fell asleep. Pongo, Missis, and the Colonel stood at the door, trying to make plans.
The Colonel said, “I can’t keep you here long. You would be found—besides, I couldn’t feed so many. We must get you to London by easy stages, just a few miles a day.”
“But where shall we sleep? Where shall we find food?” said Pongo anxiously.
“It will need tremendous organization,” said the Colonel. “I hope to arrange the first stage at once, by Midnight Barking. I must bark some distance from the farm, or I shall wake my pets.”