So they squeezed through the palings again, the little black dog leading the way, and followed him—trot—trot—along the path, till he turned in by a clump of currant bushes, and there was the door of his cottage, with a fine beam of light shining out through the crack underneath.
The little dog barked twice, and the blind man let him in. To be sure he grumbled, but that was at the little black dog, because he had been obliged to open the door for him twice already that evening, and each time the rain beat in, and as he rightly explained, that sort of thing was bad for any one’s rheumatism.
“He’s a rare grumbler,” said the little dog, “but don’t you mind him. He means nothing by it, and he’ll be asleep again in two minutes. And now make yourselves at home!”
The blind man’s cottage had only one room, but it was warm and comfortable. The stove burned cheerfully, there was a bed in one corner where the blind man slept and another under the table for the little dog. On the floor stood a saucer of bread-and-milk, left over from the little dog’s own supper, which he said they might finish up and welcome; as for himself, he had all he wanted.
While they were sitting round the stove, getting thoroughly warm and dry, the old blind man took his fiddle down from the wall and began to play. It was wonderful how he drew the bow across the strings, and at once the music came out, capital tunes, one after another, that made one long to get up and dance. The little dog sat still, blinking; he had heard these tunes many times before and took no great stock in them, he said, one air was just like another to him. The blind man’s head nodded as he played, and his foot tapped on the boards. Presently Poor Cecco could stand it no longer. He jumped up, and seizing Bulka round the waist began to whirl him about the floor. It was a pity the little dog didn’t dance too. If Virginia May and Tubby had been there, what a wonderful time they would have had! It seemed too bad that they should miss this, when Tubby so dearly loved dancing, and the only music they could get at home was the broken musical-box, that would only play three notes and then stop.
The blind man smiled; with his sightless eyes he was seeing again the old farmhouse kitchens in the country, where he had been such a fine dancer in his youth, and all the girls were proud to stand up beside him. But presently his head drooped; his foot ceased to tap on the floor and he rose yawning and hung his fiddle up on the wall again. He was old and sleepy, and he wanted to smoke another pipe before he went to bed.
And now there was a rap at the door, and the little dog pulled back the latch. It was Mrs. Greypuss, who lived next door but one. She had tucked her babies in bed and come across in the rain to learn what the festivity was about.
“You’re having a good time here,” she said. “I thought I’d step over a minute and join you, seeing the storm is nearly over!”
So she sat down beside Bulka and Poor Cecco, who were still out of breath from dancing, and they chatted together while the fire died down in the stove and the old man nodded off to sleep, his pipe between his fingers; and presently Mrs. Greypuss, who could never sit idle for long, took a needle and thread from the useful little pocket that all cats wear in their ears, and sewed Bulka up where his stitches had come undone, so that he was all strong and ready for the morrow.
“For who knows?” she said, “what further adventures you two are going to meet!”
Chapter VII
JENSINA
THEY had passed such a pleasant evening, once the storm was over, that it seemed a pity to say good-bye to the little dog again in the morning, and watch him trot off, leading his old man securely on a string, along the path to the town. He walked very jauntily, a few steps ahead of the blind man and a little faster, so that every now and then he had to pause and turn his head back, as if to say: “How slow you are this morning! We shall never get to the bridge and start business at this rate!”
Poor Cecco and Bulka waited long enough to wave their paws at him at the bend of the road; then they turned their face towards the open field. But first they stopped to say good-morning to Mrs. Greypuss, who sat washing her face on the doorstep, with her three little kittens playing near her. The-old-woman-with-the-broom they did not see, but they were careful not to go too near her house, from which they could hear a great sound of sweeping and clattering of saucepans.
The cottages where the little black dog and Mrs. Grey-puss and the-old-woman-with-the-broom lived stood on the edge of a big and very untidy field. The field was untidy because, being close to the road, and belonging to no one in particular, the dustmen had used it to dump all the ashes and tin cans and broken crockery that no one wanted to have about. But the weeds grew very tall and thick, to hide the untidiness that the dustmen made, and however fast the dustmen brought their loads of rubbish the weeds always managed to grow a little faster, so on the whole the field was not nearly as bad-looking as it might have been.
And certainly all sorts of curious and useful things lay there, for any one who had time to look about—bits of old automobiles, and lamp-chimneys and oil-stoves, and cracked china plates with most beautiful patterns on them, and here and there a perfectly good boot or coffeepot—and all these things, having been thoroughly washed by the night’s rain, were displayed among the fresh green weeds like goods in a huge shop-window. Bulka in particular, never having seen such attractive objects going to waste before, was continually wanting to stop and pick something up, and as the things he wanted were nearly all too big for him to carry, Poor Cecco had a hard time dragging him past them by the paw. And every moment Bulka kept exclaiming: “I’m sure Tubby would like that!” or, “Can’t we take this home to Gladys?”
Presently, seated beside one of the largest ash-heaps, they met a little wooden doll. She was tidily dressed in a check gingham apron, which she had made herself, with a pink mallow-blossom on her head, and was so pleased to see visitors that she jumped up at once when she saw them coming and clapped her hands.
Her name, she told them, was Jensina, and she had been living alone on this ash-heap for weeks and weeks and weeks. She was an industrious little person, one could see at once, and had not wasted her time, for when she led them presently round the side of the ash-heap there stood a cosy little house which she had built herself, out of an old soap-box, and of which she had every reason to be proud. She had spread a bit of carpet on the floor and made a sofa to sleep on, and pillows stuffed with thistledown, and she had hung the walls with scraps of wallpaper and fine pictures of tomatoes and peach-orchards, saved from old fruit cans. She had even a little kitchen, with plates and egg-cups and a real coffeepot, and all these things she had gathered one by one on the dump-heaps and brought home. Only the coffeepot, being too large, had to stand outside, but it looked very well there, and gave an air of hospitality to the place.
While they sat on the sofa at her invitation, and breakfasted on some canned salmon and graham cracker which she had very luckily brought home just before the storm yesterday, the wooden doll told them her story.
“From the earliest time I can remember,” she said, “I lived with a family of travelling gypsies. They were kindly, hard-working people, and I spent very happy days in their company. By day we travelled the roads in a cart drawn by an old white horse, and while the women and children worked at making brooms and baskets which they sold by the way, the men did odd jobs of tinkering, mending saucepans and pails for the farmers’ wives at different houses where we stopped, and in that way I saw a great deal of the country, besides learning much gypsy lore, and picking up several trades that are useful to know. At night, when the horse was taken from the wagon and turned out to graze, supper was cooked at an open fire by the roadside, and after that the family would gather round and sing songs and tell old stories, and though there might be little to eat every one was gay and happy.
“In winter, when the cold weather set in, they joined a circus in one of the small towns, and found employment there, till the summer came round once more. I had wonderful dresses in those days, for my gypsy child would sew
them out of scraps of silk and lace from the circus-riders’ costumes, that the old wardrobe women gave her to play with. It was a fine life with the circus, but I liked still better the rides in the old wagon under the open sky, and the evenings round the fire at night.
“Yes, I was happy with my gypsies, and I should be with them now had not an accident happened.
“One day the little girl left me lying too near the step of the wagon, and when the horse started I was presently jolted out and dropped by the roadside. Though I called for help no one heard me. There I lay till a workman, passing by, picked me up and took me home to his children.
“They were kind children enough, but not so kind as my gypsy child; they could never love me so well, for they had other dolls of their own, and presently they gave me away. So I passed from hand to hand, each time faring a little worse, until the last family with whom I lived changed house. They did not trouble to take me with them, so I was thrown out here, with the rest of the household rubbish, on the ash-heap.
“Still, I don’t complain, for I am used to freedom and independence; all that I learned with the gypsies has stood me in good stead, and as you see I have not wasted my time.”
“Indeed,” said Poor Cecco, looking about him, “you have made a very comfortable house here.”
The wooden doll smiled, for to tell the truth she felt not a little proud of her house, and was glad of some one to show it off to.
“It isn’t so bad,” she agreed, “and I must say there is always a living to be picked up in a place like this, especially by one who has been taught to use his wits. I even thought of starting a store here, if only there were some customers. No, the only thing I have against it is the loneliness. Just think, you are the only visitors I have received in all this time, unless you may count the rats, who are really of another class—neighbourly, but rowdy in their habits and by no means to be trusted. In fact, they think nothing of dropping in here and helping themselves to whatever they choose, claiming that everything in the field belongs to them. I have thought many times of moving, if only for the sake of change. Besides, I come of a gypsy family, and that always makes it hard to stay in one place.”
“Why don’t you join us?” asked Poor Cecco. “We are out to see the world, and it would be pleasant to have another companion.”
And Bulka, who all this while had been silent, licking the last of the canned salmon from his paws, said at once: “Yes, do!”
Jensina agreed—she was really tired of living alone on the ash-heap—and being a person of action, at once set about packing up, with the help of Poor Cecco, those belongings which she especially treasured. These were a green glass scent bottle stopper, the half of a broken silver brooch, the top of a catsup bottle which made an excellent drinking-cup and one other small object wrapped in silver-paper, which she would not show him. “For this,” as she said, “this is a secret which I dare not tell, even to you!”
To these Poor Cecco added his four pennies, and then, taking off her frock for greater freedom in walking, Jensina tied the things up in it, making a neat bundle which Poor Cecco willingly offered to carry.
Meantime, Bulka, who could not resist poking about the ash-heap, had found a damaged string of blue beads, brought to light by the heavy rain, which would make a marvellous present for Tubby. They were almost embedded in the earth; he seized one end of the string and was just giving it a strong tug when a great grey rat poked his head from among the weeds.
The rat, who looked very savage, began to twitch his nose and show his teeth, but Bulka clung to the beads manfully, although he was more than a little frightened. The rat came forward, sniffing the air, his whiskers twinkling, stretching out his body and leaving his hind feet behind him as long as possible, in the way rats do when they feel uncertain. Suddenly the string of beads came loose from the mud; Bulka fell back, uttering a loud howl, and at that very instant the rat opened his mouth to bite. In the flash of an eye, it seemed, there were rats all about him—grey rats, brown rats, black rats—all with long yellow teeth and snakelike tails.
Bulka, clutching his beads, set up a shriek for help, and immediately Poor Cecco and Jensina came scrambling over the crest of the ash-heap.
When she saw the rats Jensina for a second turned pale.
“See,” she exclaimed, “they are blocking our way! They have been listening, they know that I am going to leave them and now they are sorry! Bark, Poor Cecco, bark! It is our only chance!”
And while Poor Cecco charged down the ash-heap, barking as he had never barked before, Jensina snatched pieces of cinder and crockery from the ground and flung them at the rats with all her strength—so desperately that she very nearly threw herself after them.
Even then the rats would not give way, until Jensina, seeing the fight was unequal, said: “Well, there is only one thing to be done. We must take our chance!” And raising herself on tiptoe and waving her arms, she called out several words in rat language, which she had learned during her stay in the field.
The effect was instantaneous. The rats, with looks of amazement, horror and alarm, turned at once and rushed off through the weeds. In a second there was not one left in sight!
The battle was over, but the friends were in sore plight. Bulka had been bitten twice, Poor Cecco was hoarse from barking, and Jensina had slipped on the ash-heap and rolled from top to bottom, grazing herself severely.
“Horrid mean things!” she cried, rubbing her knees and picking up her bundle, which had come undone in the skirmish. “They think they own everything here, and that no one has any rights but them. I’m glad I am going with you, for now nothing would induce me to stay here any longer!”
“At least,” said Poor Cecco, “they have gone now, so we have nothing to fear.”
“They have gone for the moment,” Jensina said, “but we must make haste, for I fear there is very little time to lose, and I shall be much mistaken if we have seen the last of them!”
Sawdust was oozing from Bulka’s wound, but for once he didn’t mind; he had the blue beads for Tubby and that was all he could think about for the moment. Jensina bound a dock-leaf over the bite, declaring that this was the best cure for injuries, and then, tightly holding paws, they made their escape as fast as they could over the ash-heap, not feeling really safe until they had reached the edge of the road.
Chapter VIII
THE PURSUIT
POOR CECCO wanted to take to the open country, but Jensina was all for the road. She was used to roads, she said, and felt at home on them.
“Are you afraid we can’t defend you?” Poor Cecco asked.
“It isn’t so much that,” said Jensina, pausing to brush the dust off her shoes, which, being painted directly on her feet, were extremely comfortable for walking. “It isn’t so much that, as that there’s more life going on along the road. It seems years since I saw a wagon or an automobile, and if we are going to bury ourselves in the wilderness again I might as well have stayed on my ash-heap, where at least there was comfort!”
It was plain that the incident of the rats had upset her more than she would admit. So the others took no notice of her snippiness, but walked along on either side of her, affecting to admire the scenery.
There was very little passing certainly on this road. It was wide and bare and empty, and extremely hot, the sun by now being high above them, and not a cloud in the sky. Even the weeds along the roadside hung their heads. But along the edge of the road, down in the ditch, ran a trickle of water. Not enough to launch a boat on, but there was plenty to cool their feet, and very soon Poor Cecco and Bulka had hopped down and were walking along in it, splashing merrily. It looked so cool that Jensina had to follow their example. Besides, as Poor Cecco said, in this way the rats would be unable to trace their footsteps.
Jensina, like many another young lady, recovered her spirits as soon as she felt she was getting her own way; she sang snatches of songs and dances, and was altogether a most cheerful companion. Once in a whil
e, on the road above them, an automobile passed with a noise like thunder and the blowing of trumpets, and whenever this happened Jensina scrambled hastily up the side of the ditch, her legs working like a pair of compasses, but she was always too late to see anything but a vanishing cloud of dust.
“I shall walk on the edge of the road!” she called finally. “It is smoother up here, and one sees far more!”
So she walked along, tilting on her toes and turning her head from side to side as she went. But suddenly she came sliding in a great hurry down the side of the ditch again, very pale, her fingers on her lips.
“Sh-sh!” she whispered. “The rats are following us! I knew they would!”
“Where?” cried Poor Cecco. “Show me!”
Stealthily they all three climbed up the bank and peeped through the grasses. There, sure enough, coming at a steady pace along the road behind them, were two enormous rats. Even at that distance one could see their whiskers twitching and their eyes peering from side to side. At sight of them Bulka’s bites, which he had nearly forgotten about, began to smart again.
“We’ll keep quite still,” said Poor Cecco, “and perhaps they will pass by and not see us.”
So they lay down, as flat as they could, among the grasses, scarcely daring to breathe. But the rats must have known they were there. For as soon as they came within a few feet of where the three friends were in hiding they stopped short, puffing and blowing, and sat down in the road to consult.
“It’s no use,” said Jensina, “they must certainly have seen us. They are policemen rats.”
They were very fat rats, and elderly. They were hot and tired from coming so far along the dusty road. One of them, who was in quite a perspiration, began at once to mop his face and brush his whiskers, grumbling as he did so, and staring about him.
Jensina was watching them intently.
“I can’t hear what they are saying,” she whispered, “but at any rate they are not going to attack us now. The best thing is to go straight on, and pretend to take no notice of them.” And so saying, she rose to her feet, and humming a little tune, began to walk away. Bulka and Poor Cecco followed, looking back over their shoulders.
Poor Cecco Page 4
