Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3), Richard Harding Davis [best novel books to read TXT] 📗

Day A Pack Of Curs We Drove Off Snarled Back Some New Names

At Her,  And Mother Dropped Her Head And Ran,  Just As Though They Had

Whipped Us. After That She Wouldn't Go Out With Me Except In The

Dark,  And One Day She Went Away And Never Came Back,  And Though I

Hunted For Her In Every Court And Alley And Back Street Of Montreal,

I Never Found Her.

 

One Night,  A Month After Mother Ran Away,  I Asked Guardian,  The Old

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Blind Mastiff,  Whose Master Is The Night-Watchman On Our Slip,  What

It All Meant. And He Told Me.

 

"Every Dog In Montreal Knows," He Says,  "Except You,  And Every Master

Knows. So I Think It's Time You Knew."

 

Then He Tells Me That My Father,  Who Had Treated Mother So Bad,  Was A

Great And Noble Gentleman From London. "Your Father Had Twenty-Two

Registered Ancestors,  Had Your Father," Old Guardian Says,  "And In

Him Was The Best Bull-Terrier Blood Of England,  The Most Ancientest,

The Most Royal; The Winning 'Blue-Ribbon' Blood,  That Breeds

Champions. He Had Sleepy Pink Eyes,  And Thin Pink Lips,  And He Was As

White All Over As His Own White Teeth,  And Under His White Skin You

Could See His Muscles,  Hard And Smooth,  Like The Links Of A Steel

Chain. When Your Father Stood Still,  And Tipped His Nose In The Air,

It Was Just As Though He Was Saying,  'Oh,  Yes,  You Common Dogs And

Men,  You May Well Stare. It Must Be A Rare Treat For You Colonials To

See A Real English Royalty.' He Certainly Was Pleased With Hisself,

Was Your Father. He Looked Just As Proud And Haughty As One Of Them

Stone Dogs In Victoria Park--Them As Is Cut Out Of White Marble. And

You're Like Him," Says The Old Mastiff--"By That,  Of Course,  Meaning

You're White,  Same As Him. That's The Only Likeness. But,  You See,

The Trouble Is,  Kid--Well,  You See,  Kid,  The Trouble Is--Your Mother-

-"

 

"That Will Do," I Said,  For I Understood Then Without His Telling Me,

And I Got Up And Walked Away,  Holding My Head And Tail High In The

Air.

 

But I Was,  Oh,  So Miserable,  And I Wanted To See Mother That Very

Minute,  And Tell Her That I Didn't Care.

 

Mother Is What I Am,  A Street-Dog; There's No Royal Blood In Mother's

Veins,  Nor Is She Like That Father Of Mine,  Nor--And That's The

Worst--She's Not Even Like Me. For While I,  When I'm Washed For A

Fight,  Am As White As Clean Snow,  She--And This Is Our Trouble,  She--

My Mother,  Is A Black-And-Tan.

 

When Mother Hid Herself From Me,  I Was Twelve Months Old And Able To

Take Care Of Myself,  And,  As After Mother Left Me,  The Wharves Were

Never The Same,  I Moved Uptown And Met The Master. Before He Came,

Lots Of Other Men-Folks Had Tried To Make Up To Me,  And To Whistle Me

Home. But They Either Tried Patting Me Or Coaxing Me With A Piece Of

Meat; So I Didn't Take To 'Em. But One Day The Master Pulled Me Out

Of A Street-Fight By The Hind-Legs,  And Kicked Me Good.

 

"You Want To Fight,  Do You?" Says He. "I'll Give You All The Fighting

You Want!" He Says,  And He Kicks Me Again. So I Knew He Was My

Master,  And I Followed Him Home. Since That Day I've Pulled Off Many

Fights For Him,  And They've Brought Dogs From All Over The Province

To Have A Go At Me,  But Up To That Night None,  Under Thirty Pounds,

Had Ever Downed Me.

 

But That Night,  So Soon As They Carried Me Into The Ring,  I Saw The

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Dog Was Over-Weight,  And That I Was No Match For Him. It Was Asking

Too Much Of A Puppy. The Master Should Have Known I Couldn't Do It.

Not That I Mean To Blame The Master,  For When Sober,  Which He

Sometimes Was,  Though Not,  As You Might Say,  His Habit,  He Was Most

Kind To Me,  And Let Me Out To Find Food,  If I Could Get It,  And Only

Kicked Me When I Didn't Pick Him Up At Night And Lead Him Home.

 

But Kicks Will Stiffen The Muscles,  And Starving A Dog So As To Get

Him Ugly-Tempered For A Fight May Make Him Nasty,  But It's Weakening

To His Insides,  And It Causes The Legs To Wabble.

 

The Ring Was In A Hall,  Back Of A Public-House. There Was A Red-Hot

Whitewashed Stove In One Corner,  And The Ring In The Other. I Lay In

The Master's Lap,  Wrapped In My Blanket,  And,  Spite Of The Stove,

Shivering Awful; But I Always Shiver Before A Fight; I Can't Help

Gettin' Excited. While The Men-Folks Were A-Flashing Their Money And

Taking Their Last Drink At The Bar,  A Little Irish Groom In Gaiters

Came Up To Me And Give Me The Back Of His Hand To Smell,  And

Scratched Me Behind The Ears.

 

"You Poor Little Pup," Says He. "You Haven't No Show," He Says. "That

Brute In The Tap-Room,  He'll Eat Your Heart Out."

 

"That's What You Think," Says The Master,  Snarling. "I'll Lay You A

Quid The Kid Chews Him Up."

 

The Groom,  He Shook His Head,  But Kept Looking At Me So Sorry-Like,

That I Begun To Get A Bit Sad Myself. He Seemed Like He Couldn't Bear

To Leave Off A-Patting Of Me,  And He Says,  Speaking Low Just Like He

Would To A Man-Folk,  "Well,  Good-Luck To You,  Little Pup," Which I

Thought So Civil Of Him,  That I Reached Up And Licked His Hand. I

Don't Do That To Many Men. And The Master,  He Knew I Didn't,  And Took

On Dreadful.

 

"What 'Ave You Got On The Back Of Your Hand?" Says He,  Jumping Up.

 

"Soap!" Says The Groom,  Quick As A Rat. "That's More Than You've Got

On Yours. Do You Want To Smell Of It?" And He Sticks His Fist Under

The Master's Nose. But The Pals Pushed In Between 'Em.

 

"He Tried To Poison The Kid!" Shouts The Master.

 

"Oh,  One Fight At A Time," Says The Referee. "Get Into The Ring,

Jerry. We're Waiting." So We Went Into The Ring.

 

I Never Could Just Remember What Did Happen In That Ring. He Give Me

No Time To Spring. He Fell On Me Like A Horse. I Couldn't Keep My

Feet Against Him,  And Though,  As I Saw,  He Could Get His Hold When He

Liked,  He Wanted To Chew Me Over A Bit First. I Was Wondering If

They'd Be Able To Pry Him Off Me,  When,  In The Third Round,  He Took

His Hold; And I Began To Drown,  Just As I Did When I Fell Into The

River Off The Red C Slip. He Closed Deeper And Deeper,  On My Throat,

And Everything Went Black And Red And Bursting; And Then,  When I Were

Sure I Were Dead,  The Handlers Pulled Him Off,  And The Master Give Me

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A Kick That Brought Me To. But I Couldn't Move None,  Or Even Wink,

Both Eyes Being Shut With Lumps.

 

"He's A Cur!" Yells The Master,  "A Sneaking,  Cowardly Cur. He Lost

The Fight For Me," Says He,  "Because He's A---------Cowardly Cur."

And He Kicks Me Again In The Lower Ribs,  So That I Go Sliding Across

The Sawdust. "There's Gratitude Fer Yer," Yells The Master. "I've Fed

That Dog,  And Nussed That Dog,  And Housed Him Like A Prince; And Now

He Puts His Tail Between His Legs,  And Sells Me Out,  He Does. He's A

Coward; I've Done With Him,  I Am. I'd Sell Him For A Pipeful Of

Tobacco." He Picked Me Up By The Tail,  And Swung Me For The Men-Folks

To See. "Does Any Gentleman Here Want To Buy A Dog," He Says,  "To

Make Into Sausage-Meat?" He Says. "That's All He's Good For."

 

Then I Heard The Little Irish Groom Say,  "I'll Give You Ten Bob For

The Dog."

 

And Another Voice Says,  "Ah,  Don't You Do It; The Dog's Same As Dead-

-Mebby He Is Dead."

 

"Ten Shillings!" Says The Master,  And His Voice Sobers A Bit; "Make

It Two Pounds,  And He's Yours."

 

But The Pals Rushed In Again.

 

"Don't You Be A Fool,  Jerry," They Say. "You'll Be Sorry For This

When You're Sober. The Kid's Worth A Fiver."

 

One Of My Eyes Was Not So Swelled Up As The Other,  And As I Hung By

My Tail,  I Opened It,  And Saw One Of The Pals Take The Groom By The

Shoulder.

 

"You Ought To Give 'Im Five Pounds For That Dog,  Mate," He Says;

"That's No Ordinary Dog. That Dog's Got Good Blood In Him,  That Dog

Has. Why,  His Father--That Very Dog's Father--"

 

I Thought He Never Would Go On. He Waited Like He Wanted To Be Sure

The Groom Was Listening.

 

"That Very Dog's Father," Says The Pal,  "Is Regent Royal,  Son Of

Champion Regent Monarch,  Champion Bull-Terrier Of England For Four

Years."

 

I Was Sore,  And Torn,  And Chewed Most Awful,  But What The Pal Said

Sounded So Fine That I Wanted To Wag My Tail,  Only Couldn't,  Owing To

My Hanging From It.

 

But The Master Calls Out,  "Yes,  His Father Was Regent Royal; Who's

Saying He Wasn't? But The Pup's A Cowardly Cur,  That's What His Pup

Is,  And Why--I'll Tell You Why--Because His Mother Was A Black-And-

Tan Street-Dog,  That's Why!"

 

I Don't See How I Get The Strength,  But Some Way I Threw Myself Out

Of The Master's Grip And Fell At His Feet,  And Turned Over And

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