Chapter III: Part 3

“I am thinking that it will be kind of lonesome here for Billy the very first day,” replied Sam. “Couldn’t I stay to lunch with him?”

“I think it would be more polite to wait till you are invited, Sam,” said Mr. Ledwell.

“Oh, do let him stay to dinner, sir,” said Mrs. Hanlon, eagerly. “He hasn’t been here for a long time, and I have missed him dreadfully.”

“I am afraid it will put you to too much trouble,” answered Mr. Ledwell.

“No, indeed, sir, it’s no trouble at all. It’s a real pleasure.”

“Well, if you are sure he will not be in the way, I will leave him.”

So Sam was allowed to stay to lunch, with Billy, and it would be hard to say which was the more pleased with the arrangement.

One of the greatest treats Sam knew, was to occasionally make a visit to this old friend of the family. He was treated like a king on these visits, for Mrs. Hanlon thought that nothing could be too good for the son of the baby she had nursed. She always cooked the dishes she knew he liked, and then followed what he liked best of all,—stories about his papa when he was a little boy.

“I think these are the very prettiest dishes I ever saw,” said Sam, as they sat down at the neatly spread table in the cosey dining-room. “I wish we had some just like them.”

“They ain’t much by the side of the beautiful ones you have at home.”

“Oh, yes, they are,” replied Sam. “You ought to see them, Billy. They’ve got beautiful red and yellow flowers painted all around the edges.”

“Things always look and taste better to us when we’re out visiting than when we’re at home,” said Mrs. Hanlon. “I don’t see what makes you like to come here so well, Sam, when you have everything so nice at home.”

“I like your _food_,” replied Sam, “it is a great deal nicer than what we have.”

“Well, I never!” exclaimed Mrs. Hanlon.

Somehow it happened that the dinner was what Sam liked best, and he thought it very strange; but Mrs. Hanlon wanted the little blind boy to feel at home as soon as possible, and she had what she thought the boys would like.

There was beafsteak that Sam liked so much, and baked potatoes, that Mrs. Hanlon always let him open and spread himself, and sweet cranberry sauce, exactly the way he liked it, and hot biscuits, as white and fluffy as cotton wool when he broke them open, so much nicer than the cold rolls or bread and butter he had at home. Then, when they had eaten all these things, there was a nice little pudding with the cold, hard sauce Sam liked so well.

The best part of this was that Sam was allowed to prepare his own food all by himself, instead of having it cut up for him just as if he were a baby. To be sure, his knife sometimes slipped when he was cutting his meat, and a little gravy would be spilled on the white tablecloth; and once or twice a piece of meat flew off his plate and lighted in the middle of the table, but Mrs. Hanlon didn’t care one bit, and she thought he did splendidly, so Sam didn’t feel badly at all about it.

Poor Billy had to have his food prepared for him, but he managed to feed himself very well, and everything tasted as good to him as it did to Sam. There was very little talking during the dinner, both boys were so hungry, but when they were through and Mrs. Hanlon was washing the dishes in the little pantry, they followed her there. Sam told her all about the Christmas presents he was to give, all except the one he had for her, and he told her she must hang up the very largest stocking she had, and he was afraid the present wouldn’t go in then. She must hang up one for Billy, too, he said, because he would have some presents.

“Does Santa Claus bring all the presents, Sam?” asked poor little Billy, whose experience in presents had been very limited.

“No,” replied Sam, very decidedly, “I don’t believe he does. Why, he couldn’t get around to all the places, you know. Even God Himself would have to hustle.”

“Did I ever tell you what your papa did one Christmas, Sam?” asked Mrs. Hanlon.

“No, you never did. Do tell us, please.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Hanlon, as she wrung out her dishcloth, “you two boys go into the parlor, and just as soon as I get my dishes put away I’ll come in and tell you about it.”

So the two boys went into the parlor to wait for the promised story, and Sam, to while away the time, told Billy about the present he had for Mrs. Hanlon, first extracting a solemn promise that he would keep the secret to himself, and not on any account breathe a word of it to Mrs. Hanlon. Billy having pledged his word, Sam in a loud whisper, which could easily have reached the ears of their hostess if she had happened to be listening, explained that his Grandmamma had bought a warm fur muff for her, and that he had bought her a beautiful necktie, all with his own money which he had saved for the purpose.

“Now be sure you don’t tell her, Billy, for it would spoil all her pleasure if she knew what was coming;” and Billy once more promised solemnly not to breathe a word about it.

“You mustn’t hint, either, Billy, for that is just as bad; she might guess, you know;” and Billy promised to be on his guard.

Soon Mrs. Hanlon came in, and seating herself in her sewing-chair, took up some mending and announced that she was ready to begin her story. Sam drew a low chair close to hers for Billy, seating himself directly in front of her, where he could keep his eyes on her face and not lose a single word.

“We’re all ready, Mrs. Hanlon,” said Sam, hitching his hassock a little nearer in his impatience to have her begin.

“Well, Sam, when your papa was a little boy younger than you are, he had a little bank made of iron and painted to look just like a real bank where they keep money. It had a chimney on top with a hole big enough to drop a nickel in, and he used to save all he got and drop them in that way. He said he was going to keep putting them in until it was full, and then he was going to open it and buy Christmas presents with the money. It would have taken a bank as big as the State House to hold nickels enough to buy all the presents he promised. He was going to give me a gold watch and chain and ever so many other things that cost ever so much. And he was going to give Cook a silk dress and a pair of gold spectacles, and if he had money enough he said he should buy her a little horse and carriage to take her to church in, because she had grown kind of lame standing on her feet so much cooking. He had promised all the others just as handsome presents, and he was so happy talking about them that we enjoyed them as much as if we really had them.

“Well, a few days before Christmas he was out walking with me, and we passed a store not far from where we lived that was full of beautiful candy of all kinds. In front of the windows there was a group of poor children looking in and enjoying the bright paper boxes and plates piled up with tempting candy.

“They were all talking together and saying what kinds of candy they would give one another if they had money enough to buy it. They looked real happy, too, choosing the candy they didn’t have any money to buy.

“‘Poor things!’ I said, ‘I don’t suppose they will have any Christmas presents at all.’

“‘Haven’t they got any money at all?’ your papa asks.

“‘No, I don’t suppose they ever had a cent of their own, unless somebody gave it to them.’

“‘Don’t they ever have any candy at all, or any Christmas presents?’ asks your papa.

“‘I don’t believe they do,’ I answers, ‘but they look just as happy as if they did, and candy isn’t good for little folks, it makes them sick.’

“‘It doesn’t make me sick,’ says your papa, ‘and it tastes real good.’

“He looked very hard at the children, and I could see he felt very badly about their not having any candy, and pretty soon I took him home, for I didn’t want him to worry.

“Well, after we got home, your grandmamma called me into her chamber to do something for her, and I left your papa looking out of the nursery window at the passing. I often left him alone with the door open, and he played nicely by himself. It took me quite a little time to do what your grandmamma wanted of me, and when I went back to the nursery, not a sign of your papa was to be seen. I thought perhaps he had slipped down to the kitchen, he was so fond of talking to Cook, so I didn’t feel anxious about him; but when I went down to the kitchen and found he was not there, I can tell you I was pretty well scared. I hunted through the house, but not a soul had seen him. The parlor girl said she had heard the front door open a little while before, but she didn’t notice who went out.

“All at once I thought of those children looking in at the candy store, that your father had felt so sorry for. So off I started for it, and I can tell you it didn’t take me very long to get there. Well, what do you think I saw?”

“I don’t know,” replied Sam, breathlessly; “what was it?”

“Well, there stood your papa without any hat or coat on, and with his little bank under one arm. He had unlocked it, and he was giving out the nickels to the children just as fast as he could take them out, bless his warm little heart! I never saw such a sight of children as there were about him; where they could come from in such a little time was a mystery; but there they were, crowding around him, and as fast as one got a nickel, off he would run, and I don’t doubt sent others back too.

“I can see your papa now just as plain as if it was yesterday. There he stood in his little black velvet suit, with his hair blowing every which way, and his eyes shining like stars, he was so happy.

“He didn’t seem at all surprised to see me, and called out, just as happy, ‘They can have Christmas presents now, Mary. They have all got some money, and they can buy just what they’ve a mind to.’

“‘What in the world shall I do without my gold watch and chain, and all the other nice presents you were going to give me?’ I says.

“He looks rather crestfallen for a minute, as if that side of the question hadn’t occurred to him before; then he says brightly,—

“‘You won’t mind waiting till next Christmas, will you, Mary? Papa will give me some money to buy something for you with, and these poor little children didn’t have any money at all.’”

“What did Grandpapa and Grandmamma say to him when he got home?” asked Sam.

“Oh, bless you, they didn’t mind. He was a real chip off the old block. In their family giving comes as easily as breathing.”

Other stories followed this one, and by and by the sleigh came to take Sam home; and Billy bade him good-bye without a single homesick feeling. What little homeless child _could_ have failed to feel at home in such surroundings?

CHAPTER EIGHTH

A FLOCK of pigeons were walking about in front of the engine-house, picking up the handful of grain that one of the firemen had thrown out to them. They were not _all_ walking about, to speak accurately,—one, the little black and white lame pigeon, was hopping, with one little pink foot held closely against his warm feathers. Jack the Scrapper, the large handsome dark-blue pigeon with the rainbow neck, was darting in and out among the flock, seizing upon the largest grains, and pecking at every pigeon who came in his way.

The pigeons always got out of the way when they saw the Scrapper coming towards them. Sometimes a bold young pigeon would face him, and stand his ground for a while, but he didn’t keep up his resistance very long. The Scrapper was so much stronger and bolder that he always got the better of the others in the end, and was worse than ever after these triumphs.

The nearest the Scrapper ever came to defeat was when he was attacked by the six-months white squab. The squab was large and strong for his age, and as _good_-natured as the Scrapper was _ill_-natured. He had long borne the Scrapper’s bullying ways with an ill grace, and once seeing the bully peck sharply one of the mother pigeons who had meekly brought up several broods in a most judicious manner, the spirited squab could contain himself no longer, and flew at the bully with great fury. Young as the white squab was, the Scrapper had to exert himself to subdue him, and the valiant squab held out to the last. Although conquered by brute force, his spirit was as dauntless as ever, and he vowed dire vengeance so soon as he should have grown to his full strength.

The white squab had mild eyes and a gentle disposition. He never picked a quarrel, but never took an insult or saw the weak abused if he could help it. These traits made him very popular with the flock, and many of the older pigeons, as they saw him growing stronger and larger, foretold that Dick the Scrapper would have to look out for himself when the plucky squab should have attained his growth. Meanwhile the squab himself said nothing on the subject, but went on his way good-naturedly, growing stronger every day and pluming his feathers with great care. He showed no fear of the Scrapper and never got out of his way as the others did, but it was noticed that the Scrapper never tried to take the white squab’s food away, nor ever pecked at him to make him get out of his path. Perhaps he too saw how strong and big the plucky squab was growing.

This day the flock of pigeons were feeding in front of the engine-house, and the sparrows soon joined them, hopping in and out among the pigeons so adroitly that even the Scrapper often found his food vanish from before his very eyes just as he was on the eve of picking it up. While they were thus engaged, the two dogs, Jack and Boxer, came around the corner of the engine house, each with a bone in his mouth, and they lay down in the sun in front of the engine-house to eat their lunch in quiet.

The sparrows eyed the two dogs eagerly, hoping that something would be left for them, for sparrows like to pick a bone as well as dogs do; and the pigeons walked about, bobbing their pretty heads and cooing to each other in low tones.

The two dogs were a long time at their repast, for it takes time for a dog to crack a bone and get at the marrow, which is the sweetest morsel of all. Not a word passed between them until the bones had been cracked and the marrow eaten; then they allowed the sparrows to approach and get what morsels they could from the pieces left.

After they had both lapped their chops in a genteel manner, they began to talk about the matter that so interested the Fire-Dog.

“Now that the blind kid is so well looked after, the next step is to find his mother. Mr. Ledwell is trying to hunt her up, but it takes time.”

“The humans go about those things in such a round-about way,” said Boxer, who was in an excellent humor after his savory lunch. “If they knew enough to trust us a little more, they would do better.”

“I believe that the woman is dead,” said the Fire-Dog.

“No, she isn’t,” twittered a voice near by, and one of the sparrows lighted in front of the two dogs. “No, she isn’t dead, for I’ve seen her, and know just where she is.”

“How did you happen to find out so much?” asked Jack. “It is more than likely that it isn’t Billy’s mother at all. You never saw her.”

“Yes, I have seen her,” twittered the sparrow. “We were there when she fell down on the sidewalk, and we waited around until the ambulance came and took her away. We flew after it, too, to see what was going on, and we saw it stop before a big building, and saw them take her out and carry her in.”

“Very likely she was dead,” said Jack. “_You_ couldn’t tell that, or she may have died since.”

“No, she wasn’t dead. I could tell by the way they carried her. I know she hasn’t died since, because I’ve seen her since through the window. I light on a big tree that grows in front of the window, and I can see just as plainly as if I were in the room.”

“It all sounds very well,” said business-like Jack, “but for all that you may be mistaken. It may have been some other woman.”

“I am _not_ mistaken,” chirped the sparrow. “Here is a pigeon who has talked with her, and he can tell you more about her than I can. I don’t believe in trusting people too far, so I keep out of reach, but this speckled pigeon can tell you more about her than I can. Come on, Pepper and Salt, and tell Jack the Fire-Dog what you know about the blind kid’s mother.”

The black and white pigeon hopped fearlessly up to the two dogs, and modestly began his story:—

“You see, I can go ‘most anywhere because I’m lame and nobody would hurt a lame pigeon.”

“Except Dick the Scrapper,” cooed a young pigeon in tones too low to reach the Scrapper himself.

“Our friend the sparrow here had told me about the sick woman. He was pretty sure it was the blind kid’s mother, but he didn’t dare to go too near. (You know some people don’t like to have sparrows around.) So I agreed to light on the window-sill and try to find out more. The sick woman has begun to sit up now, and every day at about noon she sits in an armchair close to the window. She looks awfully sick yet. Well, the nurse who takes care of her sprinkled some crumbs on the window-sill, and when I ate them she was ever so pleased. ‘I believe he would let us touch him, he looks so tame,’ she said one day; and the nurse said, ‘I don’t believe it, he’d fly off if you put your hand out towards him.’ I didn’t, though, and she was more pleased still when I hopped in and let her stroke my feathers. ‘Poor little thing, he’s lame!’ she said when she saw my crippled foot. ‘Oh, how my poor little boy would love you! He couldn’t _see_ you, though, for he’s blind!’ and then she fell to crying and wondering what had become of her poor blind boy. The nurse tried to comfort her, and I did my best to make her understand that the blind kid was all right; but she didn’t take in what I said. I go to see her every day, and rack my brains to think of some way of bringing them together. I’ve tried to make Reordan follow me, but he hadn’t sense enough to know what I wanted. So what can we do about it?”

“Nothing that I know of,” replied Jack. “So long as humans can’t understand our language so well as we understand theirs, they will be greatly hampered. It is a great misfortune.”

The bull-dog Boxer had listened with much interest to the stories of the sparrow and the pigeon, occasionally licking his chops or shivering slightly,—signs that he was deeply moved. As the Fire-Dog finished his remark, he growled out,—

“Force them to it! That’s the only way!”

“But how?” asked the Fire-Dog. “That’s easier said than done. How would you propose going to work?”

“Seize them by the trouser’s leg and _make_ them follow you.”

“And be taken for a mad dog,” remarked Jack.

“I shouldn’t care what they took me for,” replied Boxer, “so long as I carried my point. If I once got a good grip, they’d follow.”

“Unless the trousers gave way,” remarked the Fire-Dog. “I’d bet on your grip, Boxer. But, after all, that wouldn’t work, you know. We’ve got to wait until the humans find out about it in their own slow way.”

A country wagon came by just then, and away fluttered the pigeons and sparrows. Under the wagon trotted the large farm-dog who had told the Fire-Dog about Toby.

“Any news of Toby?” he called out when he caught sight of the Fire-Dog.

“Not much. I know where he is, though. I’ve seen him.”

“You don’t say so? Well, why doesn’t he come home? He hasn’t gone back on his old friends, has he? They say city life is kind of enticing. I never had any desire to try it myself.”

“He has fallen into kind hands,” replied the Fire-Dog. “They are poor people, but kind. I gave him your message, and he said he meant to escape the first chance that offered. He may and then again he may not. He struck me as kind of soft. Not a great deal of spirit, I should say.”

“You struck it right,” replied the farm-dog. “There isn’t a better-meaning dog than Toby, but he isn’t very strong-minded.”

“From what I have heard about him, he must be a perfect fool,” growled Boxer.

“Have you seen him?” inquired the farm-dog, bristling at once, for dogs don’t like to have their friends insulted.

“No, and I don’t want to,” growled Boxer. “Hearing is bad enough, let alone seeing.”

“Will you be kind enough to make that statement again?” asked the farm-dog, marching up to the bull-dog with his legs and tail very stiff, and a ridge of hair standing up straight on his back.

“As many times as you like,” replied the bull-dog, who had risen to his feet and had begun to walk in a wide circle around the farm-dog.

“Now look here,” said the Fire-Dog, “fighting isn’t allowed on our premises. If you want to fight, you must do it somewhere else. For my part, I don’t see any occasion for fighting. I’ve led such a busy life that I haven’t had any time to waste in that way, even if I had had the inclination for it.”

“This is a question of honor,” replied the farm-dog, “and there is only one way for dogs of spirit to settle it. Your friend there has insulted a friend of mine, and unless he takes back his words we will fight it out.”

“Take back my words?” growled Boxer. “What do you take me for?”

At this point a sudden and unexpected interruption came. The gong in the engine-house struck sharply. The three grays came rushing out of their stalls, and took their places in front of the engine. The harness was let down from the pulleys that held it, and fastened into place. The fire under the boiler was lighted, the driver was in his seat, the men on the engine, and with a clatter of hoofs out they dashed, Jack barking his maddest and bounding ahead in such excitement that all other thoughts were driven out of his head.

As for the two dogs who a moment before were ready to engage in mortal combat, they were so engrossed by the sudden interruption and the excitement, that for the time everything else was forgotten. To the farm-dog this was a novel sight, different from the way they did things in his quiet town, and not a particle of the scene escaped him. The bull-dog, with his natural pertinacity, was the first to return to the subject of their late quarrel; but the farm-dog’s owner, who had missed him, came back to hunt him up, and led him off, much to his disappointment and the bull-dog’s also.

“Wait till the next time!” he snarled as he was led away.

“You’ll find me on hand!” growled Boxer.

Boxer was not usually so ill-natured as he appeared in this episode, but it is true that he was of a peppery disposition, and not averse to picking a quarrel. He would have given anything to have been a fire-dog like Jack, and his disposition had become rather soured in consequence. He was a steadfast friend, on the whole, and would have given his life, if necessary, for his old friend Jack, whose good disposition made him beloved of all.

So Boxer departed for home, thinking hard all the way, for he was a conscientious dog in spite of his pugnacious temper, and, although he would not have acknowledged it, he secretly wished that he had not been so disagreeable to the farm-dog.

“What is the reason,” said Boxer to himself, “that when I so much desire friends, I do the very thing to turn them against me? I suppose it is because I was born so and can’t help it.”

If the farm-dog had seen the bull-dog on his return, playing with his master’s little children, he would never have recognized him as the same dog. They rolled over together on the floor, and no lap-dog could have been gentler or more considerate than the bull-dog with his massive jaws and grim expression. Thus it is with bull-dogs.

CHAPTER NINTH

WE must not forget Toby, the little yellow dog with the black, turned-up nose. We left him comfortable and happy in his new home. The children grew fonder of him every day, and their mother found him no trouble at all and a cheerful companion when her children were at school. He was a quiet little fellow, and after the children had left for school and the morning’s housework was done, the mother would take up her sewing, while Toby would seat himself near by where he could watch her as she sewed. Whenever she looked up and glanced toward him he would wag his tail and smile in the way dogs smile. If she spoke to him, how fast his tail would go, and he would almost lose his balance on the chair, he wriggled so hard. The affectionate little dog had not forgotten how kindly she had received him the night the children brought him into the house, and he felt very grateful to her.

Then, when the children came home, what a rejoicing there was! Little Toby always heard their steps on the stairs before the mother did. At the first sound he would prick up his ears and move just the tip of his tail, for he was not _quite_ sure if the steps he heard were really those of the children. Then, as the steps came nearer and he felt a little more certain, his tail moved a little faster; and at last, when there was no longer any doubt, his tail wagged as fast as he could make it go, and he would run whining to the door. How he did wriggle his little body as he jumped on them and tried hard to tell them how glad he was to see them!

Then Johnny, and usually the two girls also, would take him out for a run before supper. It was not like the runs he used to have in the fields in his country home, but it was very pleasant after being pent up in those small rooms.

The most unpleasant part of this new life was the fact that great care had to be taken in order to keep him out of the way of the father of the family, who did not like dogs. Whenever the children heard their father’s step on the stairs, they always caught Toby up and whisked him into Johnny’s little dark room, where he had to stay, as still as a mouse, so long as the father was in the house. This was easily enough done at night, but in the daytime it was pretty hard for the active little dog to stay quietly in the dark room where there was not even a window to look out of.

The father of the family, who didn’t like dogs, was just the kind of man whom dogs didn’t like any better than he did them. Somehow or other he always found dogs to be in his way. If a dog happened to be taking a nap on the floor or on the sidewalk, instead of stepping to one side so as not to disturb him, he always growled, “It is strange dogs always manage to lie just where they are most in the way.” Or if a dog barked to let people know somebody was coming, he would exclaim, “What a nuisance that dog is with his barking!” In fact, whatever a dog does is considered to be the wrong thing by such people, so it is no wonder that dogs are not fond of them.

Toby had seen the father through a crack of the door and had heard his voice, and he understood just what kind of a man he was, and that it would be safer for him to keep out of his way.

Things went on in this way for almost a week, Toby being always hustled out of sight so soon as the father’s step was heard on the stairs. At last, however, Toby forgot all prudence and betrayed himself.

It was a clear, cold night, and Toby had been taken out by Johnny for a run. The air was so crisp and cold that it was just right for a smart run, and the boy and dog returned with sharp appetites for supper. Toby’s keen little turned-up nose smelt the savory fumes of sausage long before they reached the top story, and he knew that a portion of it would be his—it would be mixed with bread and moistened with hot water and perhaps a little gravy, but Toby knew just how good it would taste. His sense of smell had not deceived him; as they entered the kitchen, there were the sausages still sizzling on the stove and smelling better even than they had at a distance.

“You shall have your share when we are through, little fellow,” said the mother in her kind voice; and Toby knew she would keep her promise, even if she went without any herself.

The table was set, the sausages dished, and the family seated around the table, while Toby watched them with greedy eyes and watering mouth. Suddenly the mother exclaimed,—

“There is Father coming! Run and put the dog out of sight, Johnny; he mustn’t be bothered by him.”

So Johnny caught Toby up in his arms and hustled him off into his dark room. He couldn’t bear to leave the little fellow alone in the dark; so he left the door just ajar, that a crack of light might enter to comfort him.

Toby had heard the step and recognized it long before the mother had, but he didn’t want to leave those tempting sausages. They didn’t come his way every day.

“Father is tired to-night,” said the mother in a low tone to the children, “so you must be very good and quiet.”

The children knew by experience that when Father was tired he was always cross and easily irritated. Mother was often tired, too, but it did not make her cross, and the children learned to keep out of the way as much as possible when Father came home “tired,” as he so often did.

There was never much conversation when Father was “tired,” and Toby in his dark hiding-place could hear the rattling of dishes and could smell the delicious odor of the sausages. Father had not been expected so early, and Mother had bought a nice piece of steak for his supper, but there was not time to cook it then, so the supply of sausages was rather short. Each of the children, as was their custom since Toby had been an inmate of the family, saved a little piece for him; but they were very fond of sausages, and they did not have such luxuries very often, so it really required no little sacrifice on their part. As for Maysie, the piece she laid aside for Toby grew smaller and smaller as she made up her mind to take just one more taste and then another. At last it dwindled down to almost the size of a pea, and Maysie said to herself,—

“It isn’t worth while to save such a little piece, it won’t be even a taste;” so she ate that too.

The mother, however, seeing how small a portion the little dog was likely to receive, ate very little of her portion.

At last the silence was broken by Maysie, who could never keep still very long.

“There was a fire to-day right back of our schoolhouse, mother,” she said, “and there were ever and ever so many engines there, and do you mind the big black and white dog that came to our fire and found little blind Billy? Well, he was there, too, and I patted him and he was very kind to me.”

“He probably belonged to one of the engines,” replied Mother. “I have heard that dogs sometimes do and that they go to fires whenever the engine goes.”

“And a fine nuisance they must be, too!” muttered Father. “The men must be fools to stand it. They always manage to get in the way when they are least wanted.”

Now Toby from the next room had heard every word of the conversation. When Maysie told about the black and white dog that belonged to one of the fire-engines, Toby at once recalled the dog answering to that description whom he had seen lying in front of the engine-house, and who had taken such an interest in him. When he heard Father speaking of him as a “nuisance,” it was too much for Toby, and, forgetting that he was not to show himself, he darted through the partly opened door, and boldly presenting himself before the startled family, declared that it was not true, that the black and white engine-dog was _not_ a nuisance, but a kind and obliging fellow!

“Where in the world did that dog come from?” demanded the father, angrily. “How comes he to be snarling and growling around here?”

Although Toby was doing his best to defend the character of his friend and was quite eloquent in dog language, it sounded to the ears of the family like snarling and growling.

The children were too frightened to answer, and Mother undertook to explain.

“It is a poor little lost dog the children found,” she said. “He was half-starved and cold, and I let them take him in. He is a good little fellow and doesn’t do any harm.”

“Doesn’t do any harm!” growled Father. “It is no harm, is it, to eat us out of house and home, I suppose? I don’t work hard to feed lazy dogs, let me tell you.”

“He eats very little,” said Mother, as she looked at poor Toby, who stood shivering with fear as he heard the harsh tones of the father of the family, and began to realize how imprudent he had been. “The children each save a little from their portions, and it doesn’t cost any more to keep him.”

“Turn him out!” ordered Father. “Here, you cur! you get out of this;” and as he held the door open, out darted the little dog, expecting to feel Father’s heavy boot as he went through.

Downstairs rushed poor Toby, so frightened it was a wonder he didn’t fall headlong on his way. When he reached the street and felt the cold night air, he stood still, uncertain where to go. The cold air had seemed very pleasant to him when he had run races with Johnny, with the prospect of a good supper and warm quarters before him; but now what had he to look forward to? Roaming about the streets all night, hungry and cold, was very different. The wind was sharp, and it blew through Toby’s thin hair as he crouched on the steps of the tenement-house. All at once he bethought him of the old shed where he had been tied before the children had taken him into the house. It was cold and cheerless, but better than nothing.

Toby groped his way to the shed, and sought the farther corner where his bed had been made before. As he approached, a large rat started up. Toby could hear him as he scurried away. There was a very little of the straw left that the children had made his bed of; probably the rats had carried the rest off to make their beds.

Toby sat down and tried to think what he had better do. He thought of the warm, light kitchen from which he had been so cruelly driven, and of the children crying to see him sent out into the cold. He recalled, too, the kind and patient face of the mother of the family, and the many kindnesses he had received at her hands.

“What a difference there is in people!” murmured poor Toby to himself, as he thought of the kind reception he had met from the mother, and then of the harsh voice that had sent him out into the cold night.

“Well, crying won’t mend matters,” said Toby to himself. “I’ll wait until daylight, and then I’ll try my luck at finding my old home.”

He crouched upon the thin layer of straw which was all that protected him from the cold floor of the shed. The bleak wind blew in through the door, and forced its way through the large cracks in the sides of the building, and Toby grew colder and colder. To stay there and perhaps freeze to death some cold night was out of the question, and Toby made up his mind that he would start out as soon as daylight dawned, and try to find his way to the kind engine-dog who had been so good to him.

“If I were not so small that anybody could easily pick me up and carry me off, I shouldn’t care so much; but I’m so small I shouldn’t stand much chance.”

By and by Toby’s quick ears caught the sound of footsteps that he knew were coming his way. “I thought she would hunt me up,” said Toby to himself; “it is just like her.”

The steps came nearer and nearer, and at last, standing in the doorway of the shed, he could see in the darkness the dim outlines of the form of the children’s mother. “Doggy, Doggy!” she called softly, “are you there?”

“Here I am!” answered Toby with a bark of joy, and with a bound he was at her feet and trying to jump up and lick her hands.

“I have brought you something to eat, poor little fellow!” said the kind woman, as she set a plate before him. It was the larger part of her sausage that she had saved for him, mixed with bread and potato, and it was warm. How good it did taste to the hungry little dog! and it put warmth into his half-frozen little body, too.

The kind woman stayed for some time, petting the little dog and telling him how sorry she was for him; and Toby tried hard in his dog’s way to say that she need not feel so bad about it, and that he didn’t mind it much, for he couldn’t bear to see her kind heart so touched. She had brought a piece of an old woollen shawl with her, and before she left she wrapped him up in it and told him she would bring him some dinner the next day.

Then Toby was left alone once more, and the wind blew in at the open door and through the wide cracks, and the rats scurried by him; but Toby didn’t mind all this so much as he did before, because the warm food had put warmth into his body and the kind words had warmed his heart. He even fell asleep under the old woollen shawl, and when he next opened his eyes the first rays of daylight were stealing in through the doorway.

Toby started up at once, for he had intended to start even earlier than this. As he passed to the street, he glanced up at the home from which he had been driven. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of one of the children or of the mother, but instead of that he heard on the stairs the heavy tread of the father starting out to his work, and away sped Toby without stopping to look behind him.

Jack the Fire-Dog was right in his estimate of Toby’s character. He was not a dog of much strength of mind, and instead of hiding out of sight until the man he so dreaded had passed, and then quietly making up his mind which way he should go, as a stronger-minded dog would have done, he rushed blindly along until he was out of breath. Then he stopped and looked about him. Everything was new and strange to him. What should he do?

CHAPTER TENTH

THE more Toby tried to think out a plan for action, the more undecided he became, as is always the way with weak natures. The sun was now up, and the great city was stirring with life. Wagons from the outlying towns were coming into the city, shops were being opened, and sidewalks and front steps were being washed and swept. But in the midst of all this busy life not a soul had a thought for the poor little lost dog. One boy, carrying a can of milk, did stop to pat him, but he had no time to waste, and passed on.

“Oh, what shall I do? What _shall_ I do?” moaned Toby, helplessly. “Such a big, big world, and no place for me!”

At the corner of a distant street he saw a group of dogs, all larger than he was. They seemed, by the sound of their voices, to be quarrelling, and Toby did not dare venture near them. He knew by experience that when dogs are in a quarrelsome state of mind they are on the lookout for some object upon which to vent their excitement, and it was more than likely that they would turn the current of this excitement upon him, a stranger in the city. City dogs, too, as a general thing, do not like dogs from the country.

While Toby looked, the voices grew louder and more angry, and Toby knew that the next move would be a general scrimmage, in which each dog would blindly fight with the one nearest him, or, what was worse still, all of them would attack one of the number. It is only the meanest kind of dogs who do that, but tramp-street dogs are apt to do it. “What if they should all fall upon me?” said timid little Toby; and without stopping to see more, off he set at full speed.

The streets were now broader, and there were dwelling-houses everywhere, instead of shops. Gradually the city was growing farther and farther away, and before long fields and groups of trees were seen. Toby turned into a broad avenue, and suddenly found himself in the country. Broad fields lay around him, and just beyond appeared forest trees. A pond, now frozen over, stood in one of the fields, and on it were groups of happy children skating or playing games. Toby had never heard of a park, and he wondered to see the roads so level and everything so trim and neat. He stopped to rest and watch the children on the ice. Soon the attention of the children was attracted to him.

Toby was fond of children, and when he saw a little boy coming towards him he began to wag his tail in greeting. Then he jumped upon him and tried to express his pleasure at meeting anybody who had a kind word for him.

“Poor little fellow!” said the boy, stooping to pat the lost dog. “I am afraid you are lost, and I think I had better take you to the Home.” As he spoke, he took a leash from his pocket and was about to fasten it to Toby’s collar, when away darted Toby as fast as his legs could carry him.

“The foolish little dog!” exclaimed the boy, as he rolled up his leash and put it back in his pocket. “I could have found a nice home for you if you hadn’t been so silly.”

Toby did not know that this boy had saved the lives of many stray dogs by taking them to the Home provided for those unfortunates. He always carried a leash in his pocket for that purpose, and his bright young eyes were very quick to detect a stray dog.

All that Toby knew about these public homes was what he had seen and heard of the poorhouse in his native town. He had seen old men and women sitting out on the benches under the trees in the summer time, and he had seen their faces looking out of the windows in the winter time. They looked to him very listless and forlorn, but he did not know what would have been the fate of these aged people if they had not had the shelter of this home. He had also heard people say, “Why, I had rather go to the poorhouse than do that,” and so he had come to consider that going to such an institution was about the worst thing that could happen to anybody. A poorhouse for dogs Toby thought must be a dreadful place, and he resolved that he would rather roam the streets at the risk of starving or freezing than allow himself to be taken to one.

So Toby ran until he reached the woods that he saw before him, and when he found that the boy was not following him he slackened his pace. Everything seemed very quiet and peaceful about him. Occasionally a crow cawed from one of the tall hemlocks, the harsh voices of blue-jays reached him from the clumps of neighboring trees, and the squirrels, running along the branches or jumping from tree to tree, chatted in a friendly manner with one another. Sparrows were there also, as happy and satisfied with themselves as if their constant twittering were melodious songs.

Toby watched all these inhabitants of the woods with great interest, for the country-bred dog had often watched them, and he knew their ways. It was soon evident to Toby that these little creatures were expecting something to take place, and something of a pleasant nature, too, for they were all in a happy mood. The sparrows flew backward and forward, sometimes disappearing for a while, but always turning up again as cheerful as ever. A flock of pigeons also appeared, and, alighting on the snow, some walked about in search of any stray morsels of food which might have been overlooked, while others took advantage of this opportunity to put their plumage in order.

Toby, curious to see what it could be that these little creatures were expecting, secreted himself behind a clump of barberry bushes and waited. He thought his presence was not noticed, but he was mistaken. The bright little eyes of the nuthatch were on him, and he was trying his best to find out something about the stranger. Creeping along the under side of a large limb that grew near the spot where Toby sat hidden, the bright eyes watched every motion, for nuthatches are timid birds and very suspicious of strangers.

All at once the sparrows who had disappeared from sight came flying back in great excitement, twittering as they flew: “Coming! Coming! He is almost here!” and immediately secured favorable positions on the outskirts of the party.

No sooner had the sparrows settled themselves, than a sleigh drawn by two handsome horses was seen approaching at a rapid rate. In the sleigh were two little boys and a middle-aged gentleman. One of the boys sprang out as soon as the sleigh stopped, and Toby noticed that he had a basket in his hand. The other boy sat still until the gentleman alighted and lifted him carefully out.

“Here they are, Billy!” exclaimed the little boy who had jumped out. “They are all here, and Dick the Scrapper is here too, just as cross as ever. Oh, you ought to see how handsome the squirrels look!”

“Can’t he see for himself, without that smart little chap telling him?” muttered Toby to himself.

“No, he can’t,” replied a voice from above. “Don’t you see that he is not a seeing child?”

Toby started, to find that he had been overheard, and looking up saw the little nuthatch hanging head downward, eying him sharply.

“I didn’t know you were there,” murmured Toby, taken greatly by surprise.

“I know you didn’t. I’ve been watching you for some time, and I can see that you are a lost dog.”

Meanwhile Sam was scattering the contents of his basket far and wide, reserving the finest of the nuts to tempt the squirrels to eat from his hand. He did not forget the little blind boy, and gave the largest share to him to hold.

As Toby looked from the face of the little boy who was lending his eyes to his blind friend to the genial one of his grandpapa, he began to be puzzled. “Where have I seen those faces before?” he said to himself. “I am sure I have seen them somewhere. I know I have heard the gentleman’s voice, too. You don’t hear such a pleasant one every day;” and Toby shuddered as he recalled the harsh tones of the father of the family.

Suddenly the vision of three children and a little dog looking longingly in at the tempting display of a bake-shop rose before Toby’s eyes, and he exclaimed aloud: “I have it! That is the gentleman who gave the cakes to little Maysie! and how good they did taste!”

“I thought I heard a dog bark!” cried the little boy who had brought the basket. “Didn’t you hear him, Grandpa?”

“Yes,” replied the gentleman, “and it came from behind those bushes.”

Sam ran around the clump of barberry bushes, and there crouched Toby, trembling with excitement and anxiety. The kindly expression in the little boy’s face, and the pleasant tones of his voice, however, won the confidence of the timid little dog, and he made no resistance when Sam stooped and took him up in his arms.

“He is a lost dog,” said Grandpapa, gently stroking Toby’s head. “It will never do for him to wander around in this bleak place. We must look after him.”

“I will wrap him up in the fur robe, and then he will be as warm as toast,” replied Sam, carrying the little dog to the sleigh. When he was placed in one corner of the roomy sleigh, on the soft cushion, and the warm fur robe securely tucked about him, Toby was as comfortable as any dog could hope to be.

Sam did not linger so long as usual this morning, feeding the birds and squirrels. Finding a stray dog was an unusual excitement for him, and he was eager to look after him. So he quickly emptied the contents of his basket upon the snow, and the party started for home, leaving the crumbs and nuts to be eaten at leisure.

Toby sat between the two boys, each having an arm around him, and the sleigh started. Toby had never had a sleigh-ride before, and the rapid motion of the sleigh, with the jingling of the bells quite excited him. He sat up very straight, and pricked up his ears, while his little black turned-up nose sniffed the fresh cool air.

“I can keep him, can’t I, Grandpapa?” asked Sam, hugging the little dog closely to him; and Toby listened anxiously for the answer.