Jack, the Fire Dog

Mother thought of the many days when little Maysie was laid up with the colds that always lasted so long and made her so pale and weak, and she began to give way. It was true that a little playmate at those times would amuse the poor child, and after all it could not cost much to keep a little dog. The greatest obstacle in the way was Father. What would he say?

The children, eagerly watching their mother’s face, saw these signs of weakening, and were sure that they had gained their cause. Toby, too, with his true dog’s instinct, saw it even sooner than the children did, and before Johnny knew what he was about, gave a sudden jerk to the cord that held him. It slipped through Johnny’s fingers, and Toby, finding himself free, quickly ran up to the mother’s side, and sitting up on his hind legs, begged with all his might to be allowed to stay.

“Mercy on us,” exclaimed the astonished mother. “You don’t mean to say that you have brought him here already?”

Toby looked so small and thin, and his eyes had such a pleading expression, that the mother’s soft heart was touched. “You poor little fellow,” she said, picking him up and stroking him gently, “I think we can spare enough to keep you from starving.”

“We have kept him tied up in the shed a whole week,” said Johnny, boldly, “and it hasn’t cost a bit more. I wouldn’t mind being a little hungry myself, to save something for him.”

“I don’t think it will be necessary to go so far as that,” replied Mother. “What troubles me most is to keep him from annoying Father. You know he isn’t fond of dogs, and he mustn’t be troubled when he works so hard.”

“He is a real quiet dog,” said Johnny. “I don’t believe he will disturb him a mite.”

So Toby’s fate was settled, and he had a good supper and a share of the cakes besides, for Mother could not be prevailed upon to eat them all herself, and divided them with the others, Toby included.

Then came the important question of sleeping quarters. The cold shed was not to be thought of, and it ended by the indulgent mother consenting to his sleeping at the foot of Johnny’s bed. This was good news for Toby, who was always lonesome when he had to sleep all by himself. So the dog’s heart was no less happy than the children’s, and they all went cheerfully to bed so soon as it was decided what was to be done with Toby.

Johnny’s room was small and dark, not larger than a good-sized closet, but it seemed as luxurious as a palace to little Toby after the dark, cold shed. He was put to bed at Johnny’s feet after an affectionate leave-taking by the two girls. For a while he lay very still, but as soon as Johnny was asleep, he crept toward the head of the bed, and at last settled himself so closely to the sleeping boy that he could lick the hand that lay outside the bed-clothes.

“You are so kind to me,” said Toby to himself, “that I don’t believe I should have the heart to run away, even if I could. I should like to get a glimpse of the beautiful fields, though.”

So saying, the grateful little dog closed his eyes, and in a few moments he, too, was fast asleep, and dreaming that he was racing over his beloved fields, with Johnny close at his heels.

CHAPTER SIXTH

KIND-HEARTED Mr. Ledwell had already started inquiries concerning the blind boy’s mother. In a large city where there are so many institutions for receiving these unfortunate cases, this takes much time. Then, at the time the sick woman was taken away, she was unconscious, and, if she were still living, perhaps she was still too ill to tell her name. Mr. Ledwell also consulted an oculist in regard to Billy’s eyes, and he expressed an opinion that Billy’s sight might be restored. First, however, there must be an operation, and, to prepare for that, Billy must have the best of care, in order to become as strong as possible. Life in an engine-house, kind as the men were to him, was not the place to bring this about. He ought to have a woman’s care,—one who would bathe and dress him, and give him the most nourishing food to eat.

Such a woman Mr. Ledwell found. She had been nurse to Sam’s father, and had received so many kindnesses from the family that she was only too happy to return some of the favors she had received from them. She was now a widow, and lived in a quiet street not very far from the engine-house.

At first Billy took the idea of the change very much to heart. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his kind friends and Jack. He was a very obedient little fellow, though, and when the state of affairs was explained to him, and he was promised frequent visits from his friends, Jack included, he tried to make the best of it.

“Only think, Billy, you will be able to see the blue sky and the faces of your friends,” said Mr. Ledwell, “and your good friend Jack who saved your life; and by and by we shall find your mother, and you can see her, which will be the best of all.”

Billy had used the eyes of others for so long that he did not realize how much he should gain; but he tried to be as cheerful as possible, because he wanted to please those who had been so good to him.

One morning Mr. Ledwell and Sam called to take him to his new home. As Reordan dressed his little friend for the last time, it was well that Billy could not see; for the tender-hearted fireman was so sorry to part with his little charge that he looked very sad. Although Billy could not see the grief in Reordan’s face, he felt it in the tones of his voice and in the gentle touch of his hand, and the tears were running down the blind boy’s face. This sight was too much for tender-hearted Reordan, whose own eyes began to look very moist.

Sam looked from one to the other, and his usually bright, happy face grew serious. He tried hard to keep back the tears, but they would come, in spite of the effort he made. At last, with the tears running over his cheeks, he burst out,—

“I don’t see what there is to cry about. I am praying to God to make Billy see, and I know He will do it.”

“You are right, Sam,” said his grandpapa. “There isn’t anything to cry about. Billy is going to a pleasant home, and by and by he will see us all, and we shall find his mother, and he will be as happy as he can be.”

Jack all this time had been eagerly watching the faces about him. He could never bear to see anybody unhappy, and there he sat, softly crying to himself, and doing his best not to make any noise about it. He looked as if he wanted to remind them that all would come out right in the end, but they were not thinking of him. So, when Mr. Ledwell expressed exactly what Jack wanted to say, he could not contain himself any longer and broke into a loud howl.

“There!” exclaimed Reordan, “now that we have set Jack going, I guess it’s about time for us to stop. You’re all right, aren’t you, Kid?”

“Y—s,” sobbed Billy.

“So there isn’t any need to worry. Come on, Kid!” and suddenly catching up the little boy, Reordan seated him upon one of his broad shoulders, and set off at a rapid gait for the sleigh.

“Good-bye, Kid! Come and see us soon!” the firemen called out; and the blind boy answered their good-byes all the way to the sleigh.

There was such a bustle in starting, the horses, who had grown impatient at waiting, setting the sleigh-bells a-ringing as they pawed the snow and fidgeted about in their harnesses, that Billy grew quite excited, and became cheerful again. He waved his farewells as the sleigh drove off, and called out “Good-bye” so long as his voice could be heard.

“Poor little kid!” said Reordan; “I wouldn’t have believed that it would be so hard to part with him.”

Jack looked after the sleigh with sad eyes and drooping tail, then silently went back to the engine-house and lay down where he could hear the bell if it struck. He hoped it would, for Jack was so strictly business-like that he never liked to give way to his feelings. He lay still for some time, thinking of Billy’s pleasant ways and the good company he always was, and he grew sadder and sadder. Hardest of all was it to hear the firemen say that they didn’t believe the operation on his eyes would be successful, and that he would probably always be blind. Jack was beginning to think that he would not be able to bear the suspense much longer, when all at once the gong in the engine-house struck.

In an instant the firemen and Jack were all on their feet, every thought of the blind boy lost in the hurry and excitement of starting to the fire. A minute more, and the engine was on its way, the horses dashing along at full speed, with Jack tearing madly ahead, the notes of the bugle clearing the crowded streets as if by magic.

It was a hard fire to fight, for the building was high and lightly built, and by the time our engine reached the spot, flames were pouring out of the lower stories. Ladders were placed against the burning building, and the firemen mounted them to reach the roof. Among the men on the roof were those of Engine 33. Jack watched them hard at work, and longed to be with them. Sometimes they had carried him up the ladders, but not to such a height as this.

Jack felt hurt and neglected, for was he not one of the company? He was anxious, too, for how could they manage without him? It would not look well if any of his friends should see him standing there safely on the ground, while the lives of the rest of the company were in danger. Jack would have preferred to walk into the midst of the blaze rather than be thought a coward.

All at once a thought struck him. The next building was of the same height as the burning one. Jack remembered that when a building was burning in the lower stories, so that the firemen could not enter it, they often reached the roof through a neighboring one. The Fire-Dog always acted promptly, and in an instant he was at the door of the adjoining building. It was an hotel, and he had not many seconds to wait before some one came out. In a twinkling in crowded Jack, before the door had time to swing back, and he was on his way to the stairs.

In the excitement caused by the fire, nobody noticed a strange dog hurrying through the halls and up the stairways, and Jack soon reached the upper story. The firemen were there before him, and the skylight through which they had gone was left open. They were playing on the roof of the hotel as well as into the burning building.

Jack crossed over the streams of water that were running over the roof, and joined his company. Keeping as close as possible to his particular friend Reordan, he followed his every movement; and Reordan, hard at work, with no thought for anything but the duty before him, was glad of the dog’s company. This feeling was not expressed in words, but a glance of his eye as the Fire-Dog found him was as good as words for faithful Jack, who held himself ready to share the fireman’s fate, whatever it might be.

While hard at work, the chief espied Jack. “How did that dog get up here?” he asked in astonishment.

“Up the ladder, sir,” replied Reordan, promptly; for he never lost an opportunity to show off Jack’s intelligence.

“Well, that beats the Dutch,” said the chief. “It isn’t natural for a dog to mount ladders. He’ll come to a bad end.”

“The chief doesn’t like Jack,” said Reordan to himself. “I must keep him out of his way, or there’ll be an order to get rid of him. Keep close, Jack, old boy!”

Jack too understood by the chief’s tone and by the expression of his face that he was no favorite with him, for dogs often feel the way people think of them even more than people do. “I shall take care to keep out of his way,” said Jack to himself, as he followed his friend Reordan about.

The firemen’s work was over at last, and Jack betook himself to the street by the way he had come, and by the time his company had reached the street there was Jack, standing by the horses’ heads ready to start. The men, wet and tired, jumped upon the engine, and they started for home, Jack trotting leisurely along the sidewalk, as was his custom after a fire. Now that the excitement of the fire was over, he was beginning to think how lonely it would be in the engine-house without his little companion Billy.

“Nobody there to hug me and say, ‘Glad to see you back, you brave old Jack! I wonder if you saved any little boy’s life to-day, Jack.’ No, I shall not hear those pleasant words any more. How lonesome it will be!”

With these thoughts in his mind, whom should he see coming towards him but his old friend the bull-dog Boxer? He was a white dog, and he usually looked very clean, for he was always bathed once a week. He had told Jack about it, for he didn’t enjoy the operation, they scrubbed him so hard and used carbolic soap, which was very disagreeable to him. They usually managed to let some of the suds get into his eyes, and it made them smart dreadfully. This bath always took place on Monday, after the maids were through washing, and Jack smiled to himself as he recalled how Boxer often managed to be out of the way when washing morning came around. This was Monday morning, and Jack said to himself, “I’d be willing to bet a good-sized bone that Boxer got around that bath to-day.”

It certainly looked as if he had, for Boxer’s white coat looked very dingy against the white snow. It looked rough, too, and there was an ugly gash over one of his eyes. “He’s been in a fight,” said Jack to himself. “I don’t doubt he’s been having a beautiful time.”

So soon as Boxer espied Jack coming towards him his whole appearance changed. His tail stood up straight and stiff, his hair rose in a ridge along his spine, and he walked on tiptoe as if he were treading on eggs and didn’t want to break them. His eyes grew fierce-looking and seemed to bulge more than ever, although he had naturally very full eyes. He licked his chops, too, and seemed to swell to twice his usual size. All the time he looked straight ahead as if he didn’t see Jack at all.

“Now this is too absurd, to keep up such a feeling,” said Jack to himself, for thinking about little Billy had put him in a very soft mood. So he stopped just as he was opposite his old friend.

“Hallo, Boxer!” he called in a pleasant voice.

Boxer, however, did not return the salutation, although he settled down to a walk and seemed to be shivering.

“It seems to me that such old friends as we ought not to pass one another in this way. What’s the use in quarrelling? Life is too short for that. Come over this afternoon and see me. I’ve got some fine bones that have been buried a long time, and they must be about mellow by this time. Come over, and we’ll try ’em and talk over old times together.”

While Jack was making this amiable speech, Boxer was walking on tiptoe in a circle about him, and looking at him out of the corners of his eyes. When a dog does that it means that he wants to pick a quarrel, and he holds himself ready to spring on the other dog at the first disagreeable word he utters. Jack, however, would not utter that word, he was determined to make peace.

“There are no friends like old friends,” said Jack, pleasantly, “and I can’t afford to lose any of mine. Don’t let a few hasty words keep us apart any longer. I’m sure I’m sorry for my part of the affair, and I can’t say any more than that.”

Boxer stopped walking about in circles, and seemed to be swallowing something that stuck in his throat. The ridge on his back went down, too, and his tail didn’t stand up as stiffly. These are signs that a dog has given up his intention of fighting.

“The quarrel was not of my making,” he growled at last.

“I’m willing to take all the blame of it,” replied Jack, who was thankful to find his old friend coming around, for he knew that a bull-dog couldn’t be expected to do this at once. “I’ve lots to tell you. You don’t know anything about the blind kid who’s been stopping with us. I’ll tell you about him and about the little yellow dog Toby who was lost, and how I happened to come across him. I gave him your rules about slipping a collar. You know you taught them to me. I doubt if he’s a dog of enough character to carry it out. He looked kind of weak in his mind.”

“If he’s that kind of a dog, he’d better stay where he is,” growled Boxer.

“I wouldn’t wonder if he did,” replied Jack, “but we’ll see. He seemed to have a great respect for you when I told him about you, and said he should like to meet you.”

This was very gratifying to Boxer’s feelings, and his reserve began to thaw still more. Good-natured Jack saw the advantage he had gained, and took his leave, saying,—

“Well, be sure and come over this afternoon and we’ll talk things over. The blind kid’s story is very interesting. I should like to do something for him, and we’ll think what can be done. Two heads are better than one, you know, and yours is worth more than mine any day.”

“I’ll come around if I find time,” replied Boxer, for Jack’s tactful words had done their work, and Boxer’s voice had lost so much of its growl that it sounded quite natural again.

“Good-bye, then,” said Jack; and Boxer responded cheerfully, for at heart he was glad to be at peace with his old friend, although his nature was such that he could not have brought it about by himself, even if Jack had met him two-thirds of the way.

“Now he’ll go home and have his bath, and it will cool his brain, and he will be all right by afternoon,” said Jack to himself, as he betook himself to the engine-house. “He gave in pretty well for a bull-dog, and it didn’t hurt me a bit to take more than my share of the blame. My shoulders are broad enough to bear it.”

CHAPTER SEVENTH

IT is time to follow the little blind boy to his new home. After a short time the sleigh turned into a quiet, narrow street and stopped before a small house. There was a look of unusual neatness about it, from the carefully brushed steps to the freshly washed windows and spotless curtains. The small bay window of the front parlor was filled with plants and trailing vines, and in the midst of them hung a shining brass bird-cage, the bird singing so loudly that his blithe voice reached the ears of the occupants of the sleigh.

The front door was thrown open, not just far enough for a person to enter, but wide open as if in welcome, and in the doorway stood a stout woman with gray hair and a motherly, smiling face.

“Here is the new boy I have brought you, Mrs. Hanlon,” said Mr. Ledwell, “and I think you will find him as good as they make them.”

“I am sure I shall, sir,” she replied in a cheery voice that just suited her pleasant face; as she looked down at the blind boy’s patient face, she added to herself, “poor little soul!”

“You must manage to make him as plump and rosy as Sam is,” said Mr. Ledwell. “If you can’t do it, I don’t know who can.”

“I will do my best, sir, never fear,” replied Mrs. Hanlon; “but come in out of the cold, sir. I hope you will be satisfied with the room I’ve fixed up for the little boy. I took the front chamber up one flight, because you said he must have all the sun he could get, and the furniture you sent for it is beautiful.”

She led the way upstairs, holding Billy fast by the hand. The blind boy’s keen instinct, as soon as he heard the pleasant voice and felt the kind touch of her hands, told him into what motherly care he had fallen, and he followed her with perfect confidence. She opened the door of the chamber that was now to be his, and even Sam, accustomed to every luxury in his beautiful home, thought this one of the prettiest rooms he had ever seen.

“Oh, Billy,” he exclaimed excitedly, “you don’t know how pretty it is. There’s a little white bed with beautiful pink roses all over it, and a little white bureau, and white chairs, and there are pretty white curtains at the windows tied back with pink ribbons; and there are such be-au-ti-ful plants in the window, and there are real nice pictures hanging around. There’s a dog that looks just like Fire-Jack.”

“This is your own little room, Billy,” said kind Mr. Ledwell, “and I hope you will be very happy here. Before long, you know, you will be able to see for yourself how everything looks.”

“Yes,” said Sam, eagerly, “it’s only a few days now until Christmas, and I’m praying away like everything.”

“Oh, the dear child!” said Mrs. Hanlon, watching Sam’s excited face.

“It may not come quite so soon as Christmas, Sam,” Grandpapa said.

“Oh, yes, it will, Grandpapa,” replied Sam, confidently. “It’s to be my Christmas present, you know. Didn’t my little pony come when I asked for it?”

“Well, I hope it will,” answered Grandpapa, “but you mustn’t be disappointed if it doesn’t come the very day you expect it.”

“Why, of course it will! You see if it doesn’t!” said Sam, with his decided nod.

Mrs. Hanlon had indeed made a very attractive room with the aid of the furniture Mr. Ledwell had so generously given. “He is one who never does anything by halves,” Mrs. Hanlon had said, when she saw the neat white furniture. A cheap, brightly figured spread for the bed and simple curtains for the windows, in which she placed a few of her many plants, made a pretty, cosey room. Mr. Ledwell had also sent a few pictures of children and animals that would take the fancy of any boy or girl.

“Well,” said Mr. Ledwell, at last, “now that we have seen Billy so comfortably settled in his new home, we must be thinking about our own home. Grandmamma will think we are lost if we are not in season for lunch.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think she will,” answered Sam.

Then Grandpapa saw that Sam evidently had something on his mind, because he was not ready to start, as he usually was. “What is it, Sam?” he asked.

“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.