Chapter XVI

Jack was farther from understanding things than ever; his wonder had only increased.

Why had his friend stopped short when so well under way? He could not tell; he could only gaze at him with questioning eyes, his eyelids winking very fast in a startled way.

He pressed closer and closer to Murph, and felt a shock as of something snapping, a shudder, the quiver of a breaking chain. A deeper darkness still crept over poor Murph’s senses; he was dying!

Jack crouched over him, gazing down at his friend.

Just then Murph made a supreme effort, half turned his head and peered up in his friend’s face, while a look of tender affection passed over his glazing eyeballs, mingled with the reflection of the objects he had known all his life.

The tip of a white, dry tongue came out between his teeth, and lengthening out like a slender riband, licked Jack’s paw. It was not drawn back again; Murph was dead.

Close by in the slips the fifes were shrilling, the drums beating, the audience in front clapping hands and stamping.

Jack watched beside his friend all night. At first he had crept in between his paws, as he had always done; but the chill of the cold, rigid limbs had forced him to abandon his position.

His little brain was sorely exercised, you may take my word for that. What was this icy chill, like the coldest winter’s frost, that drove him from his dear comrade’s bosom, generally so warm a refuge? He lay there by Murph’s side, dozing with one eye open; then, suddenly starting wide awake in a panic, he would touch his friend with exploring fingers to see if he was still asleep.

Finally, he lost all patience at the other’s prolonged slumbers; he shook him, he plucked at the tufts of his woolly coat, he tickled his nose—gently at first, then more roughly. But it was all no use.

Then he took Murph’s head in his little arms; it was as heavy as lead and dragged him down all sideways. But he would not let it go, holding it hard against his breast, examining it all the while with surprise and consternation. Presently, recalling what he had seen his master’s wife do, he began to rock it to and fro, cradling it softly and swaying it slowly, unceasingly from side to side, his queer little head swaying in time, like an old man’s crooning over an infant.

The dawn filtered in through the shutters of the van, and a sunbeam trembled for an instant in the dead poodle’s eyes.