The 101 Dalmatians

by Dodie Smith

  Their plight was now worse than ever. They not only had to face the dangers of hunger and cold, there was the added danger of Cruella. They knew from the direction her car was facing that their enemy must have already been to Hell Hall and learned that they had escaped, and must now be on her way back to London. At any moment she might leave the fire and overtake them.

  If only they could have left the road and travelled by the fields again! But there were now woods on either side of the road, woods so thick that the army could not have kept together.

  “But we can hide in there, if we see the car’s headlights,” said Pongo, and explained this to the puppies. Then the army was on the march again.

  “At least the pups are warm now,” said Missis. “And they have forgotten how tired and hungry they are. It will be all right, Pongo.”

  The pace was certainly good for a couple of miles; then it got slower and slower.

  “The puppies will have to rest,” said Missis. “And this is a good place for it.”

  There was now a wide, grassy verge to the road. The moment Pongo called a halt, the pups sank down on the frosty grass. Many of them at once fell asleep.

  “They ought not to sleep,” said Pongo anxiously.

  “Let them, for a little while,” said Missis.

  The Cadpig was not asleep. She sat up in her cart and said, “Will there be a barn soon, with kind cows and warm milk?”

  “I’m sure there will be something nice,” said Missis. “Snuggle down in your hay, my darling. Pongo, how strangely quiet it is.”

  They could no longer hear any sounds from the village. No breath of wind rustled the grass or stirred the trees. The world seemed frozen into a silvery, silent stillness.

  Something soft and fluffy touched Pongo’s head, something that puzzled him. Then, as he realized what it was, Missis whispered, “Look, Pongo! Look at the puppies!”

  Tiny white dots were appearing on the sooty black coats. Snow had begun to fall.

  Missis said, smiling, “Instead of being white pups with black spots they are turning into black pups with white spots—only soon they will be all white. How soft and gentle the snow is!”

  Pongo was not smiling. He cried, “If they sleep on until it has covered them, they will never wake—they will freeze to death beneath that soft, gentle snow! Wake up, pups! Wake up!”

  By now, every pup but Lucky and the Cadpig had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep. Lucky helped his parents to rouse them, and the Cadpig helped too, sitting up in her cart and yapping piercingly. The poor pups begged to be left to sleep, and those who tottered onto their feet soon tottered off them again.

  “We shall never get them going,” said Pongo despairingly.

  For a moment the Cadpig stopped yapping, and there was a sudden silence. Then, from the village behind them, came the strident blare of the loudest motor-horn in England.

  The pups sprang up, their exhaustion driven away by terror.

  “To the woods!” cried Pongo. Then he saw that the woods were now protected by wire netting, through which not even the smallest pup could squeeze. And there was no ditch to hide in. But he could see that the woods ended, not very far ahead. “We must go on,” he cried. “There may be fields, there may be a ditch.”

  The horn sounded again, repeatedly. Pongo guessed that the fire engine had put out the fire, and now Cruella was scattering the villagers as she drove on her way. Already she would be less than two miles behind them—and the great striped car could travel two miles in less than two minutes. But the woods were ending, there were fields ahead!

  “To the fields!” cried Pongo. “Faster, faster!”

  The pups made a great spurt forward, then fell back in dismay. For though the woods ended, the wire netting still continued, on both sides of them. There was still no way off the road. And the horn sounded again—louder and nearer.

  “Nothing but a miracle can save us now,” said Pongo.

  “Then we must find a miracle,” said Missis firmly. “Pongo, what is a miracle?”

  It was at that moment that they suddenly saw, through the swirling snow, a very large van drawn up on the road ahead of them. The tailboard was down, and the inside of the van was lit by electric light. And sitting there, on a newspaper, was a Staffordshire Terrier with a short clay pipe in his mouth. That is, it looked like a clay pipe. It was really made of sugar and had once had a fine long stem. Now the Staffordshire drew the bowl of the pipe into his mouth and ate it. Then he looked up from the newspaper—which he was reading as well as sitting on—and stared in astonishment at the army of pups rushing helter-skelter towards him.

  “Help, help, help!” barked Pongo. “We are being pursued. How soon can we get off this road?”

  “I don’t know, mate,” barked back the Staffordshire. “You’d better hide in my van.”

  “The miracle, the miracle!” gasped Pongo to Missis.

  “Quickly, pups! Jump into the nice miracle,” said Missis, who now thought “miracle” was another name for a removal van.

  A swarm of pups surged up the tailboard. Up went the Cadpig’s cart, pulled from the front and pushed from behind. Then more and more pups jumped or scrambled up until the entire army was in

  “Golly, there are a lot of you,” said the Staffordshire, who had flattened himself against the side of the van. “Lucky the van was empty. Who’s after you, mates? Old Nick?”

  “Some relation of his, I think,” said Pongo. The strident horn sounded again, and now two strong headlights could be seen in the distance. “And she’s in that car.”

  “Then I’d better put the light off,” said the Staffordshire, neatly working the switch with his teeth. “That’s better.”

  Pongo’s heart seemed to miss a beat. Suddenly he knew that letting the pups get into the van had been a terrible mistake.

  “But the car’s headlights will shine in,” he gasped. “Our enemy will see the pups.”

  “Not black pups in a black van,” said the Staffordshire. “Not if they close their eyes.”

  Oh, excellent suggestion! Quickly Pongo gave the command.

  “Pups, close your eyes—or they will reflect the car’s headlights and shine like jewels in the darkness. Close them and do not open them, however frightened you are, until I give the word. Remember, your lives may depend on your obedience now. Close your eyes and keep them closed!”

  Instantly all the puppies closed their eyes tight. And now the car’s headlights were less than a quarter of a mile away.

  “Close your eyes, Missis,” said Pongo.

  “And don’t forget to close your own, mate,” said the Staffordshire.

  Now the car’s powerful engine could be heard. The strident horn blared again and again, as if telling the van to get out of the way. Louder and louder grew the noise from the engine. The glare from the headlights was now so intense that Pongo was conscious of it through his tightly shut eyelids. Would the pups obey orders? Or would terror make them look towards the oncoming car? Pongo himself had a wild desire to do so and a wild fear that the car was going to crash into the van. The noise of horn and engine grew deafening; the glare seemed blinding, even to closed eyes. Then, with a roar, the great striped car was on them—and past them, roaring on and on into the night!

  “You may open your eyes now, my brave, obedient pups,” cried Pongo. And indeed they deserved praise, for not one eye had been opened.

  “That was quite a car, mate,” said the Staffordshire to Pongo. “You must have quite an enemy. Who are you, anyway? The local pack of soot-hounds?” Then he suddenly stared very hard at Pongo’s nose. “Well, swelp me if it isn’t soot! And it doesn’t fool me. You’re the Missing Dalmatians. Want a lift back to London?”

  A lift? A lift all the way in this wonderful van! Pongo and Missis could hardly believe it. Swiftly the pups settled to sleep on the rugs and blankets used for wrapping furniture.

  “But why are there so many pups?” said the Staffordshire. “The newspapers don’t know th
e half of it, nor the quarter. They think there are only fifteen missing.”

  Pongo started to explain, but the Staffordshire said they would talk during the drive to London. “My pets will be out of that house there any minute. Fancy us doing a removal on a Sunday—and Christmas Eve. But the van broke down yesterday, and we had to finish the job.”

  “How many days will the journey to London take?” asked Missis.

  “Days?” said the Staffordshire. “It won’t take much more than a couple of hours, if I know my pets. They want to get home to finish decorating their kids’ Christmas trees. Sssh, now! Pipe down, both of you.”

  A large man in a rough apron was coming out of a nearby house. Missis thought, “As soon as one danger is past, another threatens.” Would they all be turned out of the miracle?

  The Staffordshire, wagging his tail enthusiastically, hurled himself at the man’s chest, nearly knocking him down.

  “Look out, Bill!” said the man, over his shoulder. “The Canine Cannon Ball’s feeling frisky.”

  Bill was an even larger man, but even he was shaken by the Staffordshire’s loving welcome.

  “Get down, you Self-launched Bomb,” he shouted with great affection.

  The two men and the Staffordshire came back to the van, and the Staffordshire jumped inside. The sooty Dalmatians, huddled together, were invisible in the darkness.

  “Want to ride inside, do you” said Bill. “Well, it is cold.” He put the tailboard up and shouted, “Next stop, St. John’s Wood.” A moment later the van started.

  St. John’s Wood! Surely, that was where the Splendid Vet lived—quite close to Regent’s Park! What wonderful, wonderful luck, thought Pongo. Just then he heard a clock strike. It was still only eight o‘clock.

  “Missis!” he cried. “We shall get home tonight! We shall be home for Christmas!”

  “Yes, Pongo,” said Missis gaily. But she did not feel as gay as she sounded. For Missis, who had been so brave, so confident up to the moment they had found the miracle, had suddenly been smitten by a great fear. Suppose the Dearlys did not recognize them now they were black dogs? Suppose the dear, dear Dearlys turned them away?

  She kept her fears to herself. Why should she frighten Pongo with them? How fast the miracle was travelling! She thought of the days it had taken her and Pongo to reach’ Suffolk on foot. Why, it seemed like weeks since they had left London! Yet it was only—how long? Could it be only four days? They’d slept one day in the stable at the inn, one day at the dear Spaniel‘s, one day in the Folly, part of a night in the barn after the escape from Hell Hall, then a day at the bakery. So much had happened in so short a time. And now, would it be all right when they got home? Would it? Would it?

  Meanwhile, Pongo had his own worries. He had been telling the Staffordshire all about Cruella and had remembered what she had said that night at Hell Hall—how she intended to wait until people had forgotten about the stolen puppies, and then start her Dalmatian fur farm again. Surely he and Missis would get this lot of puppies safely home (it had never occurred to him that the Dearlys might not let them in), but what of the future? How could he make sure that other puppies did not end up as fur coats later on? He asked for advice.

  “Why not kill this Cruella?” said the Staffordshire. “And I’ll help you. Let’s make a date for it now.”

  Pongo shook his head. He had come to believe that Cruella was not an ordinary human but some kind of devil. If so, could one kill her? In any case, he didn’t want his pups to have a killer-dog for a father. He would have sprung at Cruella if she had attacked any pup, but he didn’t fancy cold-blooded murder. He told the Staffordshire so.

  “Your blood would soon warm up, once you started the job,” said the Staffordshire. “Well, let me know if you change your mind. And now you take a nap, mate. You’ve still got quite a job ahead of you.”

  The Staffordshire, like Missis, wondered if the Dearlys would recognize these black Dalmatians—and if even the kindest pets would take in so many pups. But he said nothing of this to Pongo.

  Missis, lulled by the movement of the van, had fallen asleep. Soon Pongo slept too. But their dreams were haunted by their separate anxieties.

  On and on through the dark went the mile-eating miracle.

  The White Cat’s Revenge

  THE Staffordshire woke them in good time—every pup must be ready to leap out of the van the minute the tailboard was put down.

  “Not that my dear pets would hurt you if they saw you,” said the Staffordshire. “But it might cause delay. The van will stop in a big, dark garage. Streak out, turn sharp left, and you will be in a dimly lit mews—and on your way. We’ll say good-bye now.”

  “Can we send you news on the Twilight Barking?” asked Pongo.

  “Hardly ever get the chance to listen to it,” said the Staf fordshire. “But I shall get news of you all right. I’m a great one for newspapers—they pass the time on the road. Always plenty of them in the van; we use them for packing. Well, here we are.”

  The van stopped. The Staffordshire started to bark loudly.

  “Let him out, Jim,” said Bill. “Before he breaks the Sound Barrier.”

  Down came the tailboard. Out shot the Staffordshire. This time he managed to knock Jim right down, before turning to Bill, whom he tackled low.

  “Just about winded me, he has,” said Bill proudly. “Grrh, you Flying Saucer, you!”

  Jim got to his feet and spoke lovingly to the Staffordshire. “If England had six of you, we shouldn’t need no army,” he said. “Come home and get your supper, you Misguided Missile.”

  Bill and Jim had been much too occupied to notice the black dogs streaming out of the van and out of the dark garage into the mews. Snow had been falling for hours, so that London was all white. The pups had scarcely noticed the snow while they were running away from Cruella’s car. Now they at once fell in love with this beautiful feathery stuff—it raised their spirits wonderfully. And they felt well rested after their sleep in the van. They were still hungry, but they didn’t mind that much because they were expecting a wonderful supper. Hearing them counting on this, poor Missis felt more anxious than ever.

  Bill, Jim, and the Staffordshire had gone out of the garage by another way, so Pongo let the pups play in the snowy mews for a few minutes. Then Missis persuaded the Cadpig to get back into her cart, and off they went. Because of the snow there were very few people about—which was just as well, as the army of black dogs was now very noticeable against the white streets. The only person who saw them was an elderly gentleman on his way to a late party. He rubbed his eyes, then shook his head and murmured, “And I haven’t even begun Christmas yet.”

  It took only a few minutes to reach the Outer Circle. How beautiful Regent’s Park looked, snowy under the stars!

  Pongo said, “Missis, do you remember what I told you when we said good-bye to the park?”

  Missis answered, “You told me to think of the day when we would come back with fifeen puppies running behind us. And now we have ninety-seven.”

  They had not come back to the Outer Circle by the way they had left it, but were at the other side of the park, close to Cruella de Vil’s house. As they drew near to it, Pongo saw that every window was dark, so he thought it would be safe to call a moment’s halt.

  “Look, pups,” he told them. “That is our enemy’s house.”

  Lucky said, “May we scratch it and bite it?”

  “You would only hurt your nails and your teeth,” said Pongo, looking up at the huge house.

  Missis was looking down into the area. Something moved there—something only a little less white than the snow. It was Cruella’s Persian cat.

  Her back was arched, and she was spitting angrily. Pongo said quickly, “Madam, none of us would ever dream of hurting you.”

  The white cat said, “That’s the civilest speech I ever had from a dog. Who are you? There are no black dogs round here. ”

  We are not usually black except for our sp
ots,“ said Pongo. ”We once visited your house—“

  He got no further because the white cat guessed everything—as well she might, after all the talk she had heard between Mr. and Mrs. de Vil.

  “And you’ve rescued all the pups from Hell Hall! Well, bravo, bravo! I couldn’t be more pleased.”

  Then Missis remembered what Cruella de Vil had said on the night when the puppies were born, and she spoke to the white cat very kindly, saying, “I might have known you would sympathize—for I once heard you lost many kittens in early infancy.”

  “Forty-four, to the present date,” said the white cat. “All drowned by the fiend I live with.”

  “Why don’t you leave her?” asked Pongo.

  “I bide my time,” said the white cat. “I wait for my full revenge. I can’t do much on my own—I’ve only two pairs of paws. But I scare the servants away—any cat can make a house seem haunted. I let the place become overrun with mice. And, oh, how I scratch the furniture! Though it’s heartbreak ing how little she notices it—she’s such a rotten housewife. Why not let your pups come in and do some damage now?”

  “Oh, please, please let us!” clamoured all the pups.

  Pongo shook his head. “Cruella will be back. I’m surprised she’s not home already.”

  “Oh, she’s been back,” said the white cat, “and gone out to dinner. She had to, because I scared another batch of servants away this morning—as a little Christmas present for her. Do come in!”

  “No, no, Pongo!” cried Missis. “This is no moment for revenge. We should get the pups home. They are hungry.”