Tiny looked up but all she could see was a small circle of light far above. She walked round and round the bottom of the well always gazing up at the patch of light at the top.
The next day The Busker went to work without Tiny. He had no dog to carry the hat around so he just put it on the ground for people to put their money in. But hardly anyone did. The Busker tried his best. He played every tune he could think of and he cracked jokes. But it was no good. In one day he took only fifty cents. Now he knew for sure that it was Tiny that the people liked and not him.
He went home and threw some meat down the well. He could hear the faint sound of Tiny barking far below. ‘It’s no good, Tiny,’ shouted The Busker. ‘I’m not letting you out for three weeks. That will teach you a lesson.’
Every day The Busker went to work and the same thing happened. He played his music but hardly anyone put money in the hat. ‘No one likes me or my music without Tiny,’ said The Busker to himself. He was angry. He wanted people to like him. It wasn’t the money so much. He just wanted people to like him. Each night when he reached home The Busker threw meat down the well for poor Tiny. ‘Hurry up and get fat, Tiny,’ he said. ‘Because you’re not coming out until you do.’
Tiny walked round and round at the bottom of the well. All day and night she looked up, hoping to be taken out. But no one ever came except The Busker and all he did was throw down meat once a day.
The three weeks went very slowly for The Busker. Each day he stood at the station playing his music to the people who walked by without listening. But the three weeks went much more slowly for the little dog who lay at the bottom of the well, always looking up at the sky for the help that didn’t come.
At last the three weeks was up. The Busker decided to get Tiny out. He lowered the bucket down into the well but the little dog didn’t know what to do. She walked around the bucket but didn’t get into it. The Busker hadn’t counted on this. ‘Get in, you stupid dog,’ he shouted. But it was so far down that Tiny could hardly hear him. In the end he had to go and have a rope ladder made. It cost him a lot of money because it was so long. And it took a long time to make. Tiny was down the well for another week before it was finished.
3
Then something happened that changed everything. The Busker won Tattslotto. A letter came telling him that he had won over a million dollars. He couldn’t believe his luck. It was wonderful. The first thing he did was to take his drums, flags and guitar and throw them down the tip. He went and bought himself a new car and a stereo. Every day he went to the shops and bought himself anything he wanted. Soon the house filled with every luxury you could think of.
All this time Tiny was still at the bottom of the well, barking and walking around and around, looking up at the world that was out of reach so far above. Each night The Busker came and threw down meat. And each night he told himself that he would get Tiny out in the morning. But when the morning came he forgot and did something else.
The truth is, The Busker was still unhappy. He had no more friends than before. When he bought things, the salesmen were nice to him. They patted him on the back and told him how wise he was to buy this or that. But as soon as he had bought their goods they lost interest and didn’t want to talk to him.
In the end he realised he had only one friend in the world. Tiny. Tiny was the only one who really liked him. And he had put her down a well. He felt bad about what he had done to his little friend and he rushed to the well to get her out. The Busker climbed down the well to get Tiny. He was frightened because it was so deep but he knew that he had to go. There was a terrible smell in the well which got worse as The Busker went deeper. When he reached the bottom he put Tiny inside his jumper and started to climb back up the rope. All the way up Tiny licked The Busker’s face, even though he had put the poor little dog down a well for all that time.
When he reached the top of the well The Busker put Tiny on the ground. What he saw made tears come into his eyes. Tiny’s head was bent back and her eyes stared up at the sky. She couldn’t straighten up her neck. It was so stiff she could only walk around looking upwards. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ cried The Busker. ‘What have I done? Forgive me, Tiny, forgive me.’ Tiny licked The Busker on the face.
From that time on Tiny always walked with her head bent back staring at the sky. No vet and no doctor could do anything about it. She had been down the well too long and her neck was fixed in a bent back position for the rest of her life.
The Busker looked after Tiny well from that time on. He fed her the best food and took her with him everywhere he went. Tiny trotted around after The Busker, wagging her tail, even though her neck was bent back and her head stared up at the sky.
The Busker had all the love of the little dog even though he had treated her so badly. But it still wasn’t enough. He wanted people to like him. ‘What good am I,’ he said to Tiny, ‘when my only friend is a dog?’ He became more and more miserable until one day he hit upon an idea. A great idea. Or so he thought. He put an advertisement in the newspaper which said:
TO GIVE AWAY
FREE MONEY
$1.00 PER PERSON
COME AND GET IT
2 ROSE ST, MELTON
EVERY DAY 9.00 AM
‘Tiny,’ said The Busker, ‘the crowds will like me now. This time I will give them money instead of them giving it to me. I will give away half of all I have. I don’t need a million dollars. Half of that will do. Those who need money can come and get a dollar each whenever they like.’
The next morning The Busker set up a tent in his front yard. Inside he put a table and a chair and a bucket full of one-dollar coins. He hung a notice outside which said:
FREE MONEY
$1.00 EACH
At nine o’clock two scruffy-looking boys came in. ‘Where’s the free money, Pop?’ said one of them. This wasn’t what The Busker had expected. He didn’t really want children. Especially rude ones. But he had to keep his word so he took a one-dollar coin from the bucket under the table and gave it to the boy. The boy looked at it carefully and said to his friend, ‘It’s real.’ Then he turned around and ran out of the tent. The other boy held out his hand, snatched his coin and disappeared out of the tent before The Busker changed his mind.
Soon the tent was filled with more and more children. The word had spread quickly and every child in the neighbourhood was there. ‘Form a line,’ yelled The Busker. ‘And no pushing.’ The children were jostling and shoving and some were trying to push in.
The Busker was upset at the rudeness of the children. The first three simply grabbed the money and ran but the fourth child, a girl with big, brown eyes, said, ‘Gee, thanks. Thanks a lot.’ She turned round to walk out of the tent but The Busker called her back.
‘Here,’ he said, handing her another dollar. ‘You are a very polite little girl. The only one who has said thanks.’
The next girl in the line heard what was said. After The Busker handed her a one dollar coin she said, ‘Thanks a lot, Mister,’ and then stood there without moving.
‘What are you waiting for?’ asked The Busker.
‘My other dollar,’ said the girl. ‘I said thanks too. So I should get two dollars as well.’
The Busker sighed and handed her another dollar. After that all of the children discovered their manners and said, ‘Thanks.’ The Busker had to give all of them two dollars. He smiled to himself. At least they were grateful.
The line grew longer and longer. Soon it reached all the way down the street. After about fifty children had taken their two dollars an old woman came to the front of the queue. The Busker handed her a dollar. She looked at it and said, ‘Thank you, love. You are a very kind man. Very kind indeed.’
The Busker smiled and gave her another five dollars. He was pleased that she liked him so much.
As the morning passed, more and more adults joined the queue. The ones who were very polite received more money. The Busker gave fifty dollars to one young woman who said, �
��What a wonderful, generous and good man you are.’
‘This is more like it,’ he thought to himself. ‘People really like me. They can see I am really a good man.’ He gave Tiny a pat on the head. He didn’t even mind when the people in the line paid attention to Tiny. He wasn’t jealous of Tiny now that he had his own admirers.
By lunch time the bucket of money was empty. The Busker put up another sign which said:
CLOSED
GONE TO THE BANK
FOR MORE MONEY
The Busker took out two buckets of coins from the bank. ‘You had better give me some notes as well,’ he said to the teller. He took out ten thousand dollars’ worth of notes. When he reached home he found the queue had grown to over a mile long. It went down the street and round the corner. As he went by people waved and a cheer went up. ‘Good old Mister Busker,’ someone yelled out.
4
Mister Busker. No one had ever called him that before. He felt wonderful. He went into the tent and started handing out more money. Most people received two dollars but the ones who said especially nice things got more. One old man came in, knelt at The Busker’s feet and kissed his shoes. ‘Oh Great One,’ he said. ‘I give thanks to you for your great compassion and generosity.’
The Busker was moved. ‘There is no need for that,’ he said. Then he gave the old man two hundred dollars. The news soon spread along the line. The more good things you said about The Busker, the more you got. A lot of people left the queue because they couldn’t bring themselves to do it. But plenty more took their places. Soon everyone was getting at least twenty dollars.
At five o’clock The Busker put up a notice saying he had closed for the night and would be back in the morning. He went inside and sat down. He was very tired and soon fell asleep in the chair. At midnight he was woken up by a noise outside on the street. He went over to the window and looked out. He got a terrible shock. The people were still there in a long queue. They were sitting on the footpath in sleeping bags and blankets. Some had even put up small tents. A man in a van was selling pies, hot dogs and ice-creams. No one wanted to lose their place in the queue and they were all staying for the night. It was like a crowd waiting to buy tickets to see a pop star. The Busker grinned. He felt like a movie star. All of those people were there because of him.
In the morning a television crew came. They did interviews with The Busker and he was on the evening news. People came from everywhere to see the sight. The police arrived to control the traffic and keep the crowds in order. The queue grew longer and longer. And The Busker gave out larger and larger amounts of money. He had to. The people expected it when they said nice things to him. They went to lots of trouble. Some held up signs with his name on. Others had done drawings of him. One group had formed a band and sang a song saying what a great person The Busker was. Two students had made up a poem. He gave them two hundred dollars each.
On the third day the queue was four miles long. On the fifth day it was six miles long. People had to wait for three days to reach the front and The Busker had given away over half a million dollars. The money was brought every morning from the bank in an armoured car. Tiny ran up and down the line licking everyone with her little turned-up head.
At the end of the week the armoured car brought a large box of money. ‘I will need one hundred thousand dollars to see me over the weekend,’ said The Busker.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the bank manager, ‘but there are only ninety thousand dollars left. If I were you I would stop now and keep some for myself.’ The Busker knew that this was good advice. But he couldn’t keep it. The crowd all expected money. Some of them had been waiting in line for three days and three nights. He tried to cut back and give each person less but he couldn’t. They all knew what each compliment was worth. Two hundred dollars for a good song about the busker and fifty dollars for a drawing of him. He tried to give less but they started complaining and yelling that it wasn’t fair. They said they were being cheated.
The Busker was sick of it. He realised that they didn’t really like him. He was tired of hearing people tell him how good he was. But he had to keep going.
Finally the terrible moment came. He ran out of money. There wasn’t one cent left. He wrote a sign which said:
OUT OF MONEY
He hung the sign on the tent door and ran into the house with Tiny. The news spread down the line like wildfire. ‘There is no more money,’ they yelled. The line broke up and the mob charged up to the house. They started yelling and banging on the door. The Busker was scared out of his mind. Someone threw a rock through the window and glass scattered all over the floor.
‘Cheat,’ he heard someone yell.
‘Robber.’
‘I’ve been waiting in the freezing cold for two nights.’
‘Get him. Teach him a lesson.’
Another rock smashed through the window. The door was rattling and shaking. The Busker knew it would soon collapse. He ran out of the back door, followed by Tiny. The yard was empty and there was nowhere to hide. He could hear the mob smashing and crashing around inside the house. He had to hurry. Then he saw the well with the rope ladder still hanging down inside. He ran over to it and climbed down, leaving Tiny at the top. He was only just in time. The angry crowd burst into the backyard yelling and shouting.
When they saw that he had escaped they went crazy. They smashed up the house and stole all The Busker’s new purchases. They broke everything they could get their hands on. One group even destroyed the back fence and the top of the well. Someone untied the rope ladder and let it go. They had no idea that far below, the terrified Busker was hiding at the bottom.
After a while the police managed to control the mob and send them home. But it was too late to save the house. When darkness came it was a complete ruin. The Busker looked up and saw the moon. He thought it would be safe to call out for help. He yelled and yelled at the top of his voice but no one answered. Nobody could hear him, for the well was too deep. No one knew he was there. Except Tiny.
5
Days passed and no help came. It was cold and dark and smelly at the bottom of the well. The Busker would have starved to death if it hadn’t been for Tiny. The little dog ran off in search of food. It was very difficult, for with her head bent back she had trouble picking anything up in her mouth. She had to lie down on her side, grasp a piece of food in her teeth and then stand up. After this she would trot to the well with an old bone or piece of stale bread and drop it down the well.
The days turned into weeks and still no help came. The Busker stayed alive by eating whatever Tiny dropped down the well. Sometimes it was a piece of rotten meat from a dustbin or a gnarled old bone left by another dog. Once Tiny dropped down a dead cat. Whatever it was, The Busker had to eat it or starve.
In all this time, Tiny gave everything she found to the Busker. She ate practically nothing herself. After a month she was skin and bone and so weak she could hardly drag herself to the well.
The Busker shouted and shouted every day but no one came. He yelled up at the sun, at the clouds, at the moon so far above. But no one answered. Then, one day, a terrible thing happened. Nothing was dropped down the well. No bone, no scraps, nothing. The next day was the same. And the day after that. The Busker licked the water off the wet wall but he had nothing to eat. He knew that his time had come. He couldn’t last much longer. He grew weaker and weaker. And he wondered what had happened to Tiny.
At the end of the fifth week The Busker decided to give one more loud shout. His voice was almost gone. ‘Help,’ he screamed. ‘Help.’
He peered up at the small dot of light above. Was that a head looking down? Was that a voice? He strained to listen.
‘Hang on,’ said a faint voice. ‘We will soon have you out.’ He was saved.
A little later a steel cable came down the well. There was a small seat on the end. The Busker sat on it and yelled up the well. ‘Take me up. Take me up.’
When he reached the top he bl
inked. The bright light hurt his eyes but he managed to see four or five men with a tow truck and a winch. They were staring at this wild, smelly, dirty man that had come out of the well. ‘We had better get you to hospital,’ said one of the men. ‘You don’t look too good.’
‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ said another. ‘I never would have heard you if it wasn’t for that poor little dog lying over there. I came over to see if it was still alive and heard you calling out.’
The Busker ran over to where the little dog lay on the ground. She was dead. She had starved to death because she had dropped every piece of food she could find down to The Busker. Tears fell down his tangled beard. He picked Tiny up in his arms. ‘You can leave me,’ he said to the men. ‘I will be all right.’
He buried Tiny in a small grave, there in the backyard. On a piece of wood he wrote:
MY FRIEND TINY
R.I.P.
Then The Busker shuffled off. He was never seen again.
6
‘And that is the end of the story,’ said the old man.
I had forgotten where I was. Sitting there on a sand dune at the beach in the middle of the night. The story had completely taken me in. I looked at the old man but I still couldn’t see this face. I wanted to ask him questions. I wanted to know if the story was true. I wanted to know what happened to The Busker. But I never got the chance.
‘Go now, boy,’ said the old man. ‘That is the end of the story. Go and leave me alone. I am tired.’
I didn’t want to go but he sounded as if he meant it. I stood up and walked away along the top of the sand dune. After I had gone a little way the moon came out. I turned around and looked back at the tree where the old man had told the story. I could see him clearly. He had a white beard and was standing there in the moonlight looking up into the tree. Then he walked away, now looking up at the stars and the moon. With a shock I realised his neck was fixed back. He couldn’t move it. He was destined to spend all his days looking up, as he had looked up that well so many years ago.
Paul Jenning's Weirdest Stories Page 13
