“I got plenty time cut ‘at grass befo’ you’ pa gits home,” he said, reassuringly. “Thishere rope what I got my extry tub slung to is ‘mos’ wo’ plum thew my hide.”
Having uttered this protest, he continued to ambulate at the same pace, though somewhat assisted by the forward pull of the connecting tub, an easance of burden which he found pleasant; and no supplementary message came from the clothes-boiler, for the reason that it was incapable of further speech. And so the two groups maintained for a time their relative positions, about fifteen feet apart.
The amusement of the second group having abated through satiety, the minds of its components turned to other topics. “Now Flopit must have his darlin’ ‘ickle run,” said Flopit’s mistress, setting the doglet upon the ground. “That’s why sweetest Flopit and I and all of us came for a walk, instead of sitting on the nice, cool porch-kins. SEE the sweetie toddle! Isn’t he adorable, May? ISN’T he adorable, Mr. Watson?”
Mr. Watson put a useless sin upon his soul, since all he needed to say was a mere “Yes.” He fluently avowed himself to have become insane over the beauty of Flopit.
Flopit, placed upon the ground, looked like something that had dropped from a Christmas tree, and he automatically made use of fuzzy legs, somewhat longer than a caterpillar’s, to patter after his mistress. He was neither enterprising nor inquisitive; he kept close to the rim of her skirt, which was as high as he could see, and he wished to be taken up and carried again. He was in a half-stupor; it was his desire to remain in that condition, and his propulsion was almost wholly subconscious, though surprisingly rapid, considering his dimensions.
“My goo’ness!” exclaimed Genesis, glancing back over his shoulder. “‘At li’l’ thing ack like he think he go’n a GIT somewheres!” And then, in answer to a frantic pull upon the tub, “Look like you mighty strong t’day,” he said. “I cain’ go no fastuh!” He glanced back again, chuckling. “‘At li’l’ bird do well not mix up nothin’ ‘ith ole man Clematis!”
Clematis, it happened, was just coming into view, having been detained round the corner by his curiosity concerning a set of Louis XVI. furniture which some house-movers were unpacking upon the sidewalk. A curl of excelsior, in fact, had attached itself to his nether lip, and he was pausing to remove it — when his roving eye fell upon Flopit. Clematis immediately decided to let the excelsior remain where it was, lest he miss something really important.
He approached with glowing eagerness at a gallop.
Then, having almost reached his goal, he checked himself with surprising abruptness and walked obliquely beside Flopit, but upon a parallel course, his manner agitated and his brow furrowed with perplexity. Flopit was about the size of Clematis’s head, and although Clematis was certain that Flopit was something alive, he could not decide what.
Flopit paid not the slightest attention to Clematis. The self-importance of dogs, like that of the minds of men, is in directly inverse ratio to their size; and if the self-importance of Flopit could have been taken out of him and given to an elephant, that elephant would have been insufferable.
Flopit continued to pay no attention to Clematis.
All at once, a roguish and irresponsible mood seized upon Clematis; he laid his nose upon the ground, deliberating a bit of gaiety, and then, with a little rush, set a large, rude paw upon the sensitive face of Flopit and capsized him. Flopit uttered a bitter complaint in an asthmatic voice.
“Oh, nassy dray bid Horror!” cried his mistress, turning quickly at this sound and waving a pink parasol at Clematis. “Shoo! DIRTY dog! Go ‘way!” And she was able somehow to connect him with the wash-tub and boiler, for she added, “Nassy laundrymans to have bad doggies!”
Mr. Watson rushed upon Clematis with angry bellowings and imaginary missiles. “You disgusting brute!” he roared. “How DARE you?”
Apparently much alarmed, Clematis lowered his ears, tucked his tail underneath him, and fled to the rear, not halting once or looking back until he disappeared round the corner whence he had come. “There!” said Mr. Watson. “I guess HE won’t bother us again very soon!”
It must be admitted that Milady was one of those people who do not mind being overheard, no matter what they say. “Lucky for us,” she said, “we had a nice dray bid MANS to protect us, wasn’t it, Flopit?” And she thought it necessary to repeat something she had already made sufficiently emphatic.
“Nassy laundrymans!”
“I expect I gave that big mongrel the fright of his life,” said Mr. Watson, with complacency. “He’ll probably run a mile!”
The shoulders of Genesis shook as he was towed along by the convulsive tub. He knew from previous evidence that Clematis possessed both a high quality and a large quantity of persistence, and it was his hilarious opinion that the dog had not gone far. As a matter of fact, the head of Clematis was at this moment cautiously extended from behind the fence-post at the corner whither he had fled. Viewing with growing assurance the scene before him, he permitted himself to emerge wholly, and sat down, with his head tilted to one side in thought. Almost at the next corner the clothes-boiler with legs, and the wash-tubs, and Genesis were marching on; and just behind them went three figures not so familiar to Clematis, and connected in his mind with a vague, mild apprehension. But all backs were safely toward him, and behind them pattered that small live thing which had so profoundly interested him.
He rose and came on apace, silently.
When he reached the side of Flopit, some eight or nine seconds later, Clematis found himself even more fascinated and perplexed than during their former interview, though again Flopit seemed utterly to disregard him. Clematis was not at all sure that Flopit WAS a dog, but he felt that it was his business to find out. Heaven knows, so far, Clematis had not a particle of animosity in his heart, but he considered it his duty to himself — in case Flopit turned out not to be a dog — to learn just what he was. The thing might be edible.
Therefore, again pacing obliquely beside Flopit (while the human beings ahead went on, unconscious of the approaching climax behind them) Clematis sought to detect, by senses keener than sight, some evidence of Flopit’s standing in the zoological kingdom; and, sniffing at the top of Flopit’s head — though Clematis was uncertain about its indeed being a head — he found himself baffled and mentally much disturbed.
Flopit did not smell like a dog; he smelled of violets.
VI. TRUCULENCE
CLEMATIS FROWNED AND sneezed as the infinitesimal particles of sachet powder settled in the lining of his nose. He became serious, and was conscious of a growing feeling of dislike; he began to be upset over the whole matter. But his conscience compelled him to persist in his attempt to solve the mystery; and also he remembered that one should be courteous, no matter what some other thing chooses to be. Hence he sought to place his nose in contact with Flopit’s, for he had perceived on the front of the mysterious stranger a buttony something which might possibly be a nose.
Flopit evaded the contact. He felt that he had endured about enough from this Apache, and that it was nearly time to destroy him. Having no experience of battle, save with bedroom slippers and lace handkerchiefs, Flopit had little doubt of his powers as a warrior. Betrayed by his majestic self-importance, he had not the remotest idea that he was small. Usually he saw the world from a window, or from the seat of an automobile, or over his mistress’s arm. He looked down on all dogs, thought them ruffianly, despised them; and it is the miraculous truth that not only was he unaware that he was small, but he did not even know that he was a dog, himself. He did not think about himself in that way.
From these various ignorances of his sprang his astonishing, his incredible, valor. Clematis, with head lowered close to Flopit’s, perceived something peering at him from beneath the tangled curtain of cottony, violet-scented stuff which seemed to be the upper part of Flopit’s face. It was Flopit’s eye, a red-rimmed eye and sore — and so demoniacally malignant that Clematis, indescribably startled, would have wi
thdrawn his own countenance at once — but it was too late. With a fearful oath Flopit sprang upward and annexed himself to the under lip of the horrified Clematis.
Horror gave place to indignation instantly; and as Miss Parcher and her guest turned, screaming, Clematis’s self-command went all to pieces.
Miss Parcher became faint and leaned against the hedge along which they had been passing, but her visitor continued to scream, while Mr. Watson endeavored to kick Clematis without ruining Flopit — a difficult matter.
Flopit was baresark from the first, and the mystery is where he learned the dog-cursing that he did. In spite of the David-and-Goliath difference in size it would be less than justice to deny that a very fair dog-fight took place. It was so animated, in truth, that the one expert in such matters who was present found himself warmly interested. Genesis relieved himself of the burden of the wash-tub upon his back, dropped the handle of that other in which he had a half-interest, and watched the combat; his mouth, like his eyes, wide open in simple pleasure.
He was not destined to enjoy the spectacle to the uttermost; a furious young person struck him a frantic, though harmless, blow with a pink parasol.
“You stop them!” she screamed. “You make that horrible dog stop, or I’ll have you arrested!”
Genesis rushed forward.
“You CLEM!” he shouted.
And instantly Clematis was but a whitish and brownish streak along the hedge. He ran like a dog in a moving picture when they speed the film, and he shot from sight, once more, round the corner, while Flopit, still cursing, was seized and squeezed in his mistress’s embrace.
But she was not satisfied. “Where’s that laundryman with the tin thing on his head?” she demanded. “He ought to be arrested for having such a dog. It’s HIS dog, isn’t it? Where is he?”
Genesis turned and looked round about the horizon, mystified. William Sylvanus Baxter and the clothes-boiler had disappeared from sight.
“If he owns that dog,” asserted the still furious owner of Flopit, “I WILL have him arrested. Where is he? Where is that laundryman?”
“Why, he,” Genesis began slowly, “HE ain’ no laundrym—” He came to an uncertain pause. If she chose to assume, with quick feminine intuition, that the dog was William’s and that William was a laundryman, it was not Genesis’s place to enlighten her. “‘Tic’larly,” he reflected, “since she talk so free about gittin’ people ‘rested!” He became aware that William had squirmed through the hedge and now lay prostrate on the other side of it, but this, likewise, was something within neither his duty nor his inclination to reveal.
“Thishere laundryman,” said Genesis, resuming— “thishere laundryman what own the dog, I reckon he mus’ hopped on ‘at street-car what went by.”
“Well, he OUGHT to be arrested!” she said, and, pressing her cheek to Flopit’s, she changed her tone. “Izzum’s ickle heart a-beatin’ so floppity! Um’s own mumsy make ums all right, um’s p’eshus Flopit!”
Then with the consoling Miss Parcher’s arm about her, and Mr. Watson even more dazzled with love than when he had first met her, some three hours past, she made her way between the tubs, and passed on down the street. Not till the three (and Flopit) were out of sight did William come forth from the hedge.
“Hi yah!” exclaimed Genesis. “‘At lady go’n a ‘rest ev’y man what own a dog, ‘f she had her way!”
But William spoke no word.
In silence, then, they resumed their burdens and their journey. Clematis was waiting for them at the corner ahead.
VII. MR. BAXTER’S EVENING CLOTHES
THAT EVENING, AT about half-past seven o’clock, dinner being over and Mr. and Mrs. Baxter (parents of William) seated in the library, Mrs. Baxter said:
“I think it’s about time for you to go and dress for your Emerson Club meeting, papa, if you intend to go.”
“Do I have to dress?” Mr. Baxter asked, plaintively.
“I think nearly all the men do, don’t they?” she insisted.
“But I’m getting old enough not to have to, don’t you think, mamma?” he urged, appealingly. “When a man’s my age—”
“Nonsense!” she said. “Your figure is exactly like William’s. It’s the figure that really shows age first, and yours hasn’t begun to.” And she added, briskly, “Go along like a good boy and get it ever!”
Mr. Baxter rose submissively and went upstairs to do as he was bid. But, after fifteen or twenty minutes, during which his footsteps had been audible in various parts of the house, he called down over the banisters:
“I can’t find ’em.”
“Can’t find what?”
“My evening clothes. They aren’t anywhere in the house.”
“Where did you put them the last time you wore them?” she called.
“I don’t know. I haven’t had ’em on since last spring.”
“All right; I’ll come,” she said, putting her sewing upon the table and rising. “Men never can find anything,” she observed, additionally, as she ascended the stairs. “Especially their own things!”
On this occasion, however, as she was obliged to admit a little later, women were not more efficacious than the duller sex. Search high, search low, no trace of Mr. Baxter’s evening clothes were to be found. “Perhaps William could find them,” said Mrs. Baxter, a final confession of helplessness.
But William was no more to be found than the missing apparel. William, in fact, after spending some time in the lower back hall, listening to the quest above, had just gone out through the kitchen door. And after some ensuing futile efforts, Mr. Baxter was forced to proceed to his club in the accoutrements of business.
He walked slowly, enjoying the full moon, which sailed up a river in the sky — the open space between the trees that lined the street — and as he passed the house of Mr. Parcher he noted the fine white shape of a masculine evening bosom gleaming in the moonlight on the porch. A dainty figure in white sat beside it, and there was another white figure present, though this one was so small that Mr. Baxter did not see it at all. It was the figure of a tiny doglet, and it reposed upon the black masculine knees that belonged to the evening bosom.
Mr. Baxter heard a dulcet voice.
“He IS indifferink, isn’t he, sweetest Flopit? Seriously, though, Mr. Watson was telling me about you to-day. He says you’re the most indifferent man he knows. He says you don’t care two minutes whether a girl lives or dies. Isn’t he a mean ole wicked sing, p’eshus Flopit!”
The reply was inaudible, and Mr. Baxter passed on, having recognized nothing of his own.
“These YOUNG fellows don’t have any trouble finding their dress-suits, I guess,” he murmured. “Not on a night like this!”
... Thus William, after a hard day, came to the gates of his romance, entering those portals of the moon in triumph. At one stroke his dashing raiment gave him high superiority over Johnnie Watson and other rivals who might loom. But if he had known to what undoing this great coup exposed him, it is probable that Mr. Baxter would have appeared at the Emerson Club, that night, in evening clothes.
VIII. JANE
WILLIAM’S PERIOD OF peculiar sensitiveness dated from that evening, and Jane, in particular, caused him a great deal of anxiety. In fact, he began to feel that Jane was a mortification which his parents might have spared him, with no loss to themselves or to the world. Not having shown that consideration for anybody, they might at least have been less spinelessly indulgent of her. William’s bitter conviction was that he had never seen a child so starved of discipline or so lost to etiquette as Jane.
For one thing, her passion for bread-and-butter, covered with apple sauce and powdered sugar, was getting to be a serious matter. Secretly, William was not yet so changed by love as to be wholly indifferent to this refection himself, but his consumption of it was private, whereas Jane had formed the habit of eating it in exposed places — such as the front yard or the sidewalk. At no hour of the day was it advisable for a relat
ive to approach the neighborhood in fastidious company, unless prepared to acknowledge kinship with a spindly young person either eating bread-and-butter and apple sauce and powdered sugar, or all too visibly just having eaten bread-and-butter and apple sauce and powdered sugar. Moreover, there were times when Jane had worse things than apple sauce to answer for, as William made clear to his mother in an oration as hot as the July noon sun which looked down upon it.
Mrs. Baxter was pleasantly engaged with a sprinkling-can and some small flower-beds in the shady back yard, and Jane, having returned from various sidewalk excursions, stood close by as a spectator, her hands replenished with the favorite food and her chin rising and falling in gentle motions, little prophecies of the slight distensions which passed down her slender throat with slow, rhythmic regularity. Upon this calm scene came William, plunging round a corner of the house, furious yet plaintive.
“You’ve got to do something about that child!” he began. “I CAN not stand it!”
Jane looked at him dumbly, not ceasing, how ever, to eat; while Mrs. Baxter thoughtfully continued her sprinkling.
“You’ve been gone all morning, Willie,” she said. “I thought your father mentioned at breakfast that he expected you to put in at least four hours a day on your mathematics and—”
“That’s neither here nor there,” William returned, vehemently. “I just want to say this: if you don’t do something about Jane, I will! Just look at her! LOOK at her, I ask you! That’s just the way she looked half an hour ago, out on the public sidewalk in front of the house, when I came by here with Miss PRATT! That was pleasant, wasn’t it? To be walking with a lady on the public street and meet a member of my family looking like that! Oh, LOVELY!”
In the anguish of this recollection his voice cracked, and though his eyes were dry his gestures wept for him. Plainly, he was about to reach the most lamentable portion of his narrative. “And then she HOLLERED at me! She hollered, ‘Oh, WILL — EE!’” Here he gave an imitation of Jane’s voice, so damnatory that Jane ceased to eat for several moments and drew herself up with a kind of dignity. “She hollered, ‘Oh, WILL — EE’ at me!” he stormed. “Anybody would think I was about six years old! She hollered, ‘Oh, Will — ee,’ and she rubbed her stomach and slushed apple sauce all over her face, and she kept hollering, ‘Will — ee!’ with her mouth full. ‘Will — ee, look! Good! Bread-and-butter and apple sauce and sugar! I bet you wish YOU had some, Will — ee!’”
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 210
