Michael, Brother of Jerry

by Jack London

  CHAPTER XXXI

  A post card from Davis to Collins explained the reasons for Michael'sreturn. "He sings too much to suit my fancy," was Davis's way of puttingit, thereby unwittingly giving the clue to what Collins had vainlysought, and which Collins as unwittingly failed to grasp. As he toldJohnny:

  "From the looks of the beatings he's got no wonder he's been singing.That's the trouble with these animal people. They don't know how to takecare of their property. They hammer its head off and get grouchedbecause it ain't an angel of obedience.--Put him away, Johnny. Wash himclean, and put on the regular dressing wherever the skin's broken. Igive him up myself, but I'll find some place for him in the next bunch ofdogs."

  Two weeks later, by sheerest accident, Harris Collins made the discoveryfor himself of what Michael was good for. In a spare moment in thearena, he had sent for him to be tried out by a dog man who neededseveral fillers-in. Beyond what he knew, such as at command to stand up,to lie down, to come here and go there, Michael had done nothing. He hadrefused to learn the most elementary things a show-dog should know, andCollins had left him to go over to another part of the arena where amonkey band, on a sort of mimic stage, was being arranged and broken in.

  Frightened and mutinous, nevertheless the monkeys were compelled toperform by being tied to their seats and instruments and by being pulledand jerked from off stage by wires fastened to their bodies. The leaderof the orchestra, an irascible elderly monkey, sat on a revolving stoolto which he was securely attached. When poked from off the stage bymeans of long poles, he flew into ecstasies of rage. At the same time,by a rope arrangement, his chair was whirled around and around. To anaudience the effect would be that he was angered by the blunders of hisfellow-musicians. And to an audience such anger would be highlyludicrous. As Collins said:

  "A monkey band is always a winner. It fetches the laugh, and the money'sin the laugh. Humans just have to laugh at monkeys because they're sosimilar and because the human has the advantage and feels himselfsuperior. Suppose we're walking along the street, you and me, and youslip and fall down. Of course I laugh. That's because I'm superior toyou. I didn't fall down. Same thing if your hat blows off. I laughwhile you chase it down the street. I'm superior. My hat's still on myhead. Same thing with the monkey band. All the fool things of it makeus feel so superior. We don't see ourselves as foolish. That's why wepay to see the monkeys behave foolish."

  It was scarcely a matter of training the monkeys. Rather was it thetraining of the men who operated the concealed mechanisms that made themonkeys perform. To this Harris Collins was devoting his effort.

  "There isn't any reason why you fellows can't make them play a real tune.It's up to you, just according to how you pull the wires. Come on. It'sworth going in for. Let's try something you all know. And remember, theregular orchestra will always help you out. Now, what do you all know?Something simple, and something the audience'll know, too?"

  He became absorbed in trying out the idea, and even borrowed a circusrider whose act was to play the violin while standing on the back of agalloping horse and to throw somersaults on such precarious platformwhile still playing the violin. This man he got merely to play simpleairs in slow time, so that the assistants could keep the time and the airand pull the wires accordingly.

  "Of course, if you make a howling mistake," Collins told them, "that'swhen you all pull the wires like mad and poke the leader and whirl himaround. That always brings down the house. They think he's got a realmusical ear and is mad at his orchestra for the discord."

  In the midst of the work, Johnny and Michael came along.

  "That guy says he wouldn't take him for a gift," Johnny reported to hisemployer.

  "All right, all right, put him back in the kennels," Collins orderedhurriedly.--"Now, you fellows, all ready! 'Home, Sweet Home!' Go to it,Fisher! Now keep the time the rest of you! . . . That's it. With a fullorchestra you're making motions like the tune.--Faster, you, Simmons. Youdrag behind all the time."

  And the accident happened. Johnny, instead of immediately obeying theorder and taking Michael back to the kennels, lingered in the hope ofseeing the orchestra leader whirled chattering around on his stool. Theviolinist, within a yard of where Michael sat squatted on his haunches,played the notes of "Home, Sweet Home" with loud slow exactitude andemphasis.

  And Michael could not help it. No more could he help it than could hehelp responding with a snarl when threatened by a club; no more could hehelp it than when he had spoiled the turn of Dick and Daisy Bell whenswept by the strains of "Roll Me Down to Rio"; no more could he help itthan could Jerry, on the deck of the _Ariel_, help singing when VillaKennan put her arms around him, smothered him deliciously in her cloud ofhair, and sang his memory back into time and the fellowship of theancient pack. As with Jerry, was it with Michael. Music was a drug ofdream. He, too, remembered the lost pack and sought it, seeing the barehills of snow and the stars glimmering overhead through the frostydarkness of night, hearing the faint answering howls from other hills asthe pack assembled. Lost the pack was, through the thousands of yearsMichael's ancestors had lived by the fires of men; yet remembered alwaysit was when the magic of rhythm poured through him and flooded his beingwith visions and sensations of that Otherwhere which in his own life hehad never known.

  Compounded with the waking dream of Otherwhere, was the memory of Stewardand the love of Steward, with whom he had learned to sing the very seriesof notes that now were being reproduced by the circus-rider violinist.And Michael's jaw dropped down, his throat vibrated, his forefeet maderestless little movements as if in the body he were running, as truly hewas running in the mind, back to Steward, back through all the ages tothe lost pack, and with the shadowy lost pack itself across the snowywastes and through the forest aisles in the hunt of the meat.

  The spectral forms of the lost pack were all about him as he sang and ranin open-eyed dream; the violinist paused in surprise; the men poked themonkey leader of the monkey orchestra and whirled him about wildly ragingon his revolving stool; and Johnny laughed. But Harris Collins tooknote. He had heard Michael accurately follow the air. He had heard himsing--not merely howl, but _sing_.

  Silence fell. The monkey leader ceased revolving and chattering. Themen who had poked him held poles and wires suspended in their hands. Therest of the monkey orchestra merely shivered in apprehension of what nextatrocity should be perpetrated. The violinist stared. Johnny stillheaved from his laughter. But Harris Collins pondered, scratched hishead, and continued to ponder.

  "You can't tell me . . . " he began vaguely. "I know it. I heard it.That dog carried the tune. Didn't he now? I leave it to all of you.Didn't he? The damned dog sang. I'll stake my life on it.--Hold on, youfellows; rest the monkeys off. This is worth following up.--Mr.Violinist, play that over again, now, 'Home, Sweet Home,'--let her go.Press her strong, and loud, and slow.--Now watch, all of you, and listen,and tell me if I'm crazy, or if that dog ain't carrying the tune.--There!What d'ye call it? Ain't it?"

  There was no discussion. Michael's jaw dropped and his forefeet begantheir restless lifting after several measures had been played. AndHarris Collins stepped close to him and sang with him and in accord.

  "Harry Del Mar was right when he said that dog was the limit and sold histroupe. He knew. The dog's a dog Caruso. No howling chorus of muttssuch as Kingman used to carry around with him, but a real singer, asoloist. No wonder he wouldn't learn tricks. He had his specially allthe time. And just to think of it! I as good as gave him away to thatdog-killing Wilton Davis. Only he came back.--Johnny, take extra care ofhim after this. Bring him up to the house this afternoon, and I'll givehim a real try-out. My daughter plays the violin. We'll see what musiche'll sing with her. There's a mint of money in him, take it from me."

  * * * * *

  Thus was Michael discovered. The afternoon's try-out was partiallysuccessful. After vainly attempting strange music on him, Collins foun
dthat he could sing, and would sing, "God Save the King" and "Sweet Byeand Bye." Many hours of many days were spent in the quest. Vainly hetried to teach Michael new airs. Michael put no heart of love in theeffort and sullenly abstained. But whenever one of the songs he hadlearned from Steward was played, he responded. He could not helpresponding. The magic was stronger than he. In the end, Collinsdiscovered five of the six songs he knew: "God Save the King," "Sweet Byeand Bye," "Lead, Kindly Light," "Home, Sweet Home," and "Roll Me Down toRio." Michael never sang "Shenandoah," because Collins and Collins'sdaughter did not know the old sea-chanty and therefore were unable tosuggest it to him.

  "Five songs are enough, if he won't never learn another note," Collinsconcluded. "They'll make him a bill-topper anywhere. There's a mint inhim. Hang me if I wouldn't take him out on the road myself if only I wasyoung and footloose."