“Here, dog-catcher,” shrilled an impish young voice. “Here’s the kennel where the strange dog ran in. I saw him. He hadn’t a collar on.”
I scarcely dared breathe. Some Bowery imp had seen me, and reported me to the police.
“Gringo,” said an unusually resonant man’s voice, “come out. We’re going to raid your kennel.”
Gringo told me afterward he gave his master a wink. Anyway, when the deep voice sounded again, it was to a different tune.
“Officer,” it said carelessly, “do you think a strange dog would get by that face?”
“No I don’t,” said a policeman’s voice. “Run home, young one, and when you dream again, don’t call me.”
“What are you givin’ me?” asked the imp’s voice, and I knew by the twang it was a girl imp. “Gringo’s foolin’ you. He’s the soft dog in the heart spot. See me ram my fist down his throat.”
Gringo told me afterward it was as good as a play to see the cop’s face when impie ran her thin young arm in between his rat-trap jaws. Of course he had to bite her gently. There was nothing else to do.
The young one in a rage, smashed him in the face.“There’s one for you, you old bluffer. You never bit me before. Keep your old dog—I don’t care, but I’m on to him when he makes his exit.”
Gringo was shaking with laughter, when they all went away. “There’s a long feather in your cap,” he said.
“A feather I could have done without,” I replied ruefully. “It means I must skedaddle.”
“Not without your dinner,” he said kindly, and he started to shuffle toward the back door of the red brick house. “Bark twice, if the angel re-appears,” he said over his shoulder.
Thank fortune she did not, and soon Gringo returned, carrying his food dish between his huge jaws. He set the dish in front of the kennel.
“I often feed here,” he said under his breath. “Take what I chuck you. The angel has her eye at a crack in the fence.”
As he ate, he carelessly tossed into the kennel, toast scraps soaked in nice chicken gravy, and some delicious steak bones with the tenderest part of the meat clinging to them. What a good dinner I had! But I was nearly choked with thirst.
I told him about my parched throat, when he finished his dinner, and came into the kennel.
“You’ll have to wait,” he said, “till the angel folds her wings. She’s the cleverest young one on the Bowery. Usually I like her, but to-night I wish she was in——”
“Yes, yes,” I said, “in bed. Well, she’ll have to go soon.”
“Poor kid. She has no mother,” said the old dog, “and her aunt spoils her.”
That young one stayed at the fence crack for exactly one hour. She was determined to prove she was right. Before she went away, she called viciously, “I’ve got to beat it, Gringo, so tell your friend to take a starlight saunter to some other place in this burg. I’m goin’ to make this place too hot to hold him to-morrow.”
He said nothing, and I observed irritably, “Usually girls like dogs.”
“She’s wild for them,” observed Gringo. “Don’t you catch on? She’s mad because she didn’t get her own way, and because I went back on her.”
“But why did she report me, in the first place?” I asked.
“Because she was hanging round here, hoping to get a glimpse of you. I gave her a black look when she came too near, and it crossed her temper. She was bound to get even with me. I should have let her see you. Then she’d have helped you. She treats dogs like Christians.”
“Pagans for me then,” I said. “I think I’ll be going.”
“You must have a drink first,” said Gringo hospitably. “Follow me.”
He led the way to the saloon—to the tub where they washed the glasses. The water was rather fiery, but I didn’t care, for I was exceedingly thirsty. He invited me to stay till later, but I said, “No.” I wanted to get away, while there were still plenty of people in the streets.
“YOU MUST HAVE A DRINK FIRST,” SAID GRINGO HOSPITABLY
“YOU MUST HAVE A DRINK FIRST,” SAID GRINGO HOSPITABLY
“YOU MUST HAVE A DRINK FIRST,” SAID GRINGO HOSPITABLY
“You’re leaner than I am, you can slip between folks,” he said. “I never could hide my bulk. Still you’re white—that’s dead against you. How do you get over that in your travels?”
“It’s a great handicap,” I replied, “except when I’m hiding against something light. But it’s wonderful how one can overcome disadvantages.”
“You’re smart,” he said with a snort. “I guess you’d get on anyway. Call again, some time.”
I thanked him warmly for his hospitality, scurried down the side street, then round by another winding one to the Bowery! Oh! those narrow streets! Rich people have the ugly things at the backs of their houses. These poor people had the fire-escapes and clothes lines in front. No room at the back. Poor wretches—they even hadn’t air enough. I could smell the foulness of it. No wonder they get tuberculosis of the brain.
I dashed back to the Bowery which was airy and comfortable compared with these side streets. Then I mingled with the crowd on the sidewalk.
For weeks I had been living in a small town, and this seemed like old times, for I am a city dog born and bred. I love the fields and the forests for a time, but for week in and week out, give me the pavements and lots of excitement.
“In town let me live then,In town let me die.For in truth I can’t bear the country, not I.If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,Oh! give me the sweet, shady side of Pall Mall.”
“In town let me live then,In town let me die.For in truth I can’t bear the country, not I.If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,Oh! give me the sweet, shady side of Pall Mall.”
“In town let me live then,In town let me die.For in truth I can’t bear the country, not I.If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,Oh! give me the sweet, shady side of Pall Mall.”
“In town let me live then,
In town let me die.
For in truth I can’t bear the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
Oh! give me the sweet, shady side of Pall Mall.”
An English greyhound taught me that, one summer when I was in London, with a dearly loved mistress who afterward married a man who hated dogs.
Well, to come back to the Bowery. It was a fine night, and everybody was out but the cripples. Oh, what a forest of little feet and big feet, and pretty feet and ugly feet, and good feet and wicked feet. I trotted among them, moralising just as hard as I could.
Feet have as much character as faces. Show me a pair of shoes with the ankles in them, and I’ll tell you what kind of a headpiece crowns the structure.
For a while, I ran beside a nice little pair of stout, black, walking shoes. They had been patched, but the blacking on them shone over the patch. There were neat, darned stockings in the shoes, above them the trim circle of a serge skirt, then, on account of the crowd, I could see no more. But I knew a tidy young girl walked in those shoes, and her brother must have approved of her, for if a boy goes walking with his sister at night, she must be a pretty nice girl. They were going to a moving picture show, and were debating what they should buy for their sick mother with the ten cents that would be left. Finally they decided on grape fruit.
The boy had stocky feet encased in heavy boots that had not been bought this side of the Atlantic. I listened to the rich brogue of the boots, and found it was Irish. When the great yellow and red mouth of a moving picture palace swallowed up shoes and owners, I sidled up to another pair in the throng.
Oh! what a little witch this girl was—dirty, light-topped,French-heeled shoes, wiggly, frayed skirt edge, silly walk—she kept lopping over against her partner, a lad who was parading the damp streets in thin-soled, shoddy shoes about as substantial as paper. I couldn’t stand their idiotic talk. I left them, paddled up to Forty-second Street, and ran across it to Broadway.
I noted that many more electric lights have been put up since I was here last. The Great White Way has more than a thousand eyes now, and the pavements were rather lighter than I liked them.
I lifted my paws daintily, feeling as if I were walking on mirrors. However, the mirrors were mostly obscured—what crowds of hurrying, restless human beings surging to and fro, meeting, clashing, avoiding, closing, opening—just like waves of the sea.
I had no need to keep out of sight of the policemen here. They were fully occupied with the human waves which sometimes leaped over and by them, in spite of the warning hand that would keep them from being dashed to pieces by the street traffic.
I paused to take breath round the corner of a street.
“Say, those policemen have a hard time,” I remarked to a black cat who had come out to take the air, and was blotted against a dark spot in a wall. She wasn’t a bit afraid of me.
“Everybody has a hard time in New York,” she said gloomily, “and if one human goes under the wheels, the rest show their teeth at the cop.”
“That’s mean,” I observed.
“Everything’s mean here,” she said. “It’s a hideous place for cats.”
“I didn’t know there were any cats on Broadway,” I said.
“There aren’t many,” she replied. “I come from Sixth Avenue,” and she gave a backward tilt to her head.
I sat and panted, and she went on bitterly, “You dogs don’t know what life is for us cats. You are led out for exercise, and you get it, even if your head is in a muzzle. They take you to the parks. If we crawl out, we can’t get beyond the curbstone. Just think of life without the touch of earth and grass to your paws. Everything paved and stony. I wish I was dead.”
“Some cats go on the roofs,” I said. “I’ve seen them.”
“A roof is glary and there’s no earth there,” she said, “and no one to play with. Cats shouldn’t be allowed in big cities. Look at my face—all broke out with mange.”
“Do you get enough to eat?” I enquired.
“Too much,” she said gloomily. “I belong to an eating-house. I’m supposed to catch mice, but I don’t. I just dream.”
“What do you dream about?” I asked.
Her face grew quite handsome. “I dream of a little cottage with a garden and a kind old woman.”
“Are you a stolen cat?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said miserably. “I come from Mount Vernon way. These folks here were automobiling a few weeks ago, and wanting a cat, stole me.”
“Why don’t you run home?” I asked.
“All that way—up toward Harlem and the Bronx—I’m scared.”
“Look here,” I said, “tell me your address. Maybe some day I can do something for you.”
“The Lady Gay eating-house,” she said, “but there’s precious little gaiety about it.”
“Cheer up,” I said, “I haven’t a home myself, and I’ve had lots of trouble, and I’m going to have more, but I never give up.”
“Where do you live?” she asked curiously.
I began to laugh. “I wish I knew. I’m looking for a home.”
“You’re quite a nobby dog,” she said looking me over. “I suppose our eating-house wouldn’t suit you.”
“Now mind,” I said warningly, “I’m not stuck-up. I love all kinds of people, but for choice give me the rich. They’re so clean, and have so many comforts.”
“I guess you’re right,” she said bitterly. “I wish I had your pluck. I’d like to go home-seeking too.”
“Come along,” I said with a laugh. “I’ll take you.”
She shrank back against the wall, till she looked like a pancake, and drew in her breath. “I’d never dare.”
“If you never dare, you never accomplish anything,” I said.
“But even if I dared,” she said persistently, “how could a cat get through these crowded streets, away up to Mount Vernon?”
“Oh! I don’t know,” I said, “but in your case, I’d do something. There’s always a way out of trouble.”
“Well now, just suppose you’re a cat, and in my place, what would you do?”
“Do those people who stole you, ever motor back in that same direction?”
“Often—it makes me crazy to hear them talk about the lovely times they have spinning along from village to village, and town to town.”
“Why don’t you sneak into the automobile some day when they’re going out, and hide till they get somewhere near your old home. They’d be sure to go in somewhere for a drink, then you could steal out, and make a bolt for your old woman and the cottage.”
“There’s no place to hide in the car,” she said. “They’d discover me.”
“Well then, start out some night, and take the journey in relays. A strong young cat could run miles in a night. By morning, you’d be away from the crowded district.”
“But where would I get my breakfast?” she asked.
“Oh fudge!” I replied. “I see you’re one of those cautious cats that want every step of the way checked out. You’ve got to rely a little on your own initiative, to get on in this world.”
She showed some temper at this, and said snappishly, “I can’t change myself. I’m made timid.”
“Then you’ve got to trust to luck or to a friend.”
“Will you help me?” she said pitifully.
She was a perfect goose of a cat, still I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. “I’ll give you some advice,” I said. “Stop eating meat, and take moreexercise. You’re too young a cat to have mange.”
“I do take exercise,” she said. “I come here every night, and watch the folks.”
“Do you call that exercise?” I said disdainfully. “Why, that’s nothing. You should run back and forth for hours. Come in here through this door into this courtyard. I’ll show you how.”
My paws were beginning to get pretty sore by this time, for I had run far that day. However, I notice I always have bad luck, if I don’t stop to help some lame dog or cat over a stile. So I leaped and gambolled round that dark courtyard, and made her do likewise, till her lugubriousness had all faded away.
“I declare I feel like ten cats all rolled in one,” she said holding her head up, and mewing gratefully.
“Now you just come here every night and do this,” I said, “and cut the meat out of your bill-of-fare. Hope on, and if you can’t do anything for yourself, and if I get a good billet, I’ll do something for you.”
“Oh! what will you do?” she mewed anxiously, as she followed me back to Broadway.
“How can I tell, my friend,” I replied. “I’m a dog that acts on impulse. Good-bye, and good luck to you.”
“So long,” she said sweetly. “You’ve brought me hope and cheer. Oh! do come soon again.”
I laughed, and tossed my head as I left her. Who could tell when we should meet again? “You spruce up, and do something for yourself,” I called back. “You’re the best friend you’ve got. Remember that.”
I travelled up Broadway for a while, in a brownstudy. What a pity that so many of us like the city. The country is certainly better for us. Why didn’t I stay in lovely old Virginia?
Ah! why didn’t I? And I snickered to myself, as I dashed out into the street for a run. We like crowds, and music, and excitement. We like to be pushed, and hurried, and worried; and have funny things and adventurous things, and dreadful things happen. There’s nothing in the world that some human beings and some dogs hate as much as being bored, and that’s what takes us to the cities, and keeps us there till we’re exhausted, and go to the country to recuperate.
But wouldn’t it be possible to have the country made more attractive, I wondered. I’ve heard human beings talk about good roads, and more telephones, and theatres, and moving pictures and churches open all the time, like some of these New York churches where you can go in and rest. More city in the country and more country in the city—that would suit everybody.
I opened my eyes wide when I got to Seventy-second Street. Why, I thought I was down town. How the traffic has moved up!
Broadway got quieter, and cleaner, and broader, as I ran like a fox along the wide pavement. Here was more danger of being seen by a policeman. Two did see me, and one gave chase and threw his club; but I laughed between my paws, and ran on. Let him catch me if he could.
Old Broadway looked fine. There are huge apartment houses where there used to be nothing at all, or else contingents of fair-sized houses squatting alongthe way, waiting for something to turn up. Now these sky-scraping apartment houses have come in battalions, rearing their lofty heads with their rob-my-neighbour air. There’s something powerfully mean about them, in spite of their good looks. The health commissioner had better get after them, for they steal air and light from all the little houses, and do more harm than we dogs do.
At last I turned toward Riverside Drive. Ah! here was something I liked best of all—plenty of air and light, and the grand old Hudson as sparkling and handsome as ever. I had to jump up on one of the iron seats to look at it, on account of the stone wall. I think a city river, flowing smoothly between houses full of pleasure or trouble, and flashing back their myriad lights, is one of the most soothing sights in the world.
I love the Hudson, and the Thames, and the Seine and many other rivers, and next to them I love the bays, but they are mostly too big to love. It’s the little things that creep next us.
Well, the Hudson looked all right outside, but I hear the fishes are giving it an awful name inside. In fact, no respectable fish comes now within miles of New York.
Riverside Drive is grand with its fine houses, and its breadth and open park spaces. I began to sing a little song to myself as I ran past the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ monument, “Who’ll take poor doggie in for the night?”
I had struck the regular dog and baby district bythis time. Both kinds of pets flourish on Riverside Drive. The babies had all gone to bed, but lots of little boy and girl dogs were taking the air. The most of them were led by maids or men-servants, and a few by their fond owners. Here and there one scampered about, trying to look gay and careless in spite of his sobering muzzle, which made me think of Gringo and his health commissioner.
I often think what a lot of trouble human beings take for us dogs. I’ve seen men and women yawning with fatigue, exercising their dogs at night. They know we love them—that is, some of them do. There’s a powerful lot of dog affection wasted on owners who don’t understand dogs, and never take them out with them. Upon my word, my heart has ached to see the pitiful, beseeching glances some dogs give their masters and mistresses, as if saying, “Do like us a little—we just adore you.”
A sudden thought came to me, as I stared at the various dogs disporting themselves on the Drive. I must get a collar off one of them. I fixed my eye on a young but horribly bloated Boston terrier with a white face who was wearing a collar too large for him. He hadn’t any neck worth speaking of. Now,I am an open-faced, wire-haired fox terrier, and my neck was not nearly as large as this bloated fellow’s. I stalked him for three blocks, till he got skittish, and throwing up his head, left the maid he had been following so closely, and started out by himself for a run in the bushes.
She stood holding his muzzle in her hand, and keeping a keen look-out for policemen.
I stole after him, grabbed his collar with my teeth, slipped my own head in it, and ran like a purse-snatcher with a policeman after him.
Mr. Boston gave an angry roar, but I knew the maid would take care of him, so I loped easily along and forgot about them.