My Doggie and I, R. M. Ballantyne [top romance novels txt] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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I smiled, but refused to move until the fate of Dumps was ascertained.
Presently the fireman returned with my doggie in his arms.
Poor Dumps! He was a pitiable sight. Tons of hot water had been pouring on his devoted head, and his shaggy, shapeless coat was so plastered to his long, little body, that he looked more like a drowned weazel than a terrier. He was trembling violently, and whined piteously, as they gave him to me; nevertheless, he attempted to wag his tail and lick my hands. In both attempts he failed. His tail was too wet to wag—but it wriggled.
“He’d have saved himself, sir,” said the man who brought him, “only there was a rope round his neck, which had caught on a coal-scuttle and held him. He’s not hurt, sir, though he do seem as if some one had bin tryin’ to choke him.”
“My poor doggie!” said I, fondling him.
“He won’t want washin’ for some time to come,” observed one of the bystanders.
There was a laugh at this.
“Come; now the dog is safe you have no reason for refusing to go with me,” said the elderly gentleman, who, I now understood, was the master of the burning house.
As we walked away he asked my name and profession, and I thought he smiled with peculiar satisfaction when I said I was a student of medicine.
“Oh, indeed!” he said; “well—we shall see. But here we are. This is the house of my good friend Dobson. City man—capital fellow, like all City men—ahem! He has put his house at my disposal at this very trying period of my existence.”
“But are you sure, Dr McTougall, that all the household is saved?” I asked, becoming more thoroughly awake to the tremendous reality of the scene through which I had just passed.
“Sure! my good fellow, d’you think I’d be talking thus quietly to you if I were not sure? Yes, thanks to you and the firemen, under God, there’s not a hair of their heads injured.”
“Are you—I beg pardon—are you quite sure? Have you seen Miss McTougall since she—”
“Miss McTougall!” exclaimed the doctor, with a laugh. “D’you mean my little Jenny by that dignified title?”
“Well, of course, I did not know her name, and she is not very large; but I brought her down the shoot with such violence that—”
An explosion of laughter from the doctor stopped me as I entered a large library, the powerful lights of which at first dazzled me.
“Here, Dobson, let me introduce you to the man who has saved my whole family, and who has mistaken Miss Blythe for my Jenny!—Why, sir,” he continued, turning to me, “the bundle you brought down so unceremoniously is only my governess. Ah! I’d give twenty thousand pounds down on the spot if she were only my daughter. My Jenny will be a lucky woman if she grows up to be like her.”
“I congratulate you, Mr Mellon,” said the City man, shaking me warmly by the hand.
“You have acted with admirable promptitude—which is most important at a fire—and they tell me that the header you took into the escape, with Miss Blythe in your arms, was the finest acrobatic feat that has been seen off the stage.”
“I say, Dobson, where have you stowed my wife and the children? I want to introduce him to them.”
“In the dining-room,” returned the City man. “You see, I thought it would be more agreeable that they should be all together until their nerves are calmed, so I had mattresses, blankets, etcetera, brought down. Being a bachelor, as you know, I could do nothing more than place the wardrobes of my domestics at the disposal of the ladies. The things are not, indeed, a very good fit, but—this way, Mr Mellon.”
The City man, who was tall and handsome, ushered his guests into what he styled his hospital, and there, ranged in a row along the wall, were five shakedowns, with a child on each. Seldom have I beheld a finer sight than the sparkling lustre of their ten still glaring eyes! Two pleasant young domestics were engaged in feeding the smaller ones with jam and pudding. We arrange the words advisedly, because the jam was, out of all proportion, too much for the pudding. The elder children were feeding themselves with the same materials, and in the same relative proportions. Mrs McTougall, in a blue cotton gown with white spots, which belonged to the housemaid, reclined on a sofa; she was deadly pale, and the expression of horror was not quite removed from her countenance.
Beside her, administering restoratives, sat Miss Blythe, in a chintz dress belonging to the cook, which was ridiculously too large for her. She was dishevelled and flushed, and looked so pleasantly anxious about Mrs McTougall that I almost forgave her having robbed me of my doggie.
“Miss Blythe, your deliverer!” cried the little doctor, who seemed to delight in blowing my trumpet with the loudest possible blast; “my dear, your preserver!”
I bowed in some confusion, and stammered something incoherently. Mrs McTougall said something else, languidly, and Miss Blythe rose and held out her hand with a pleasant smile.
“Well, if this isn’t one of the very jolliest larks I ever had!” exclaimed Master Harry from his corner, between two enormous spoonfuls.
“Hah!” exclaimed Master Jack.
He could say no more. He was too busy!
We all laughed, and, much to my relief, general attention was turned to the little ones.
“You young scamps!—the ‘lark’ will cost me some thousands of pounds,” said the doctor.
“Never mind, papa. Just go to the bank and they’ll give you as much as you want.”
“More pooding!” demanded Master Job. The pleasant-faced domestic hesitated.
“Oh! give it him. Act the banker on this occasion, and give him as much as he wants,” said the doctor.
“Good papa!” exclaimed the overjoyed Jenny; “how I wis’ we had a house on fire every night!”
Even Dolly crowed with delight at this, as if she really appreciated the idea, and continued her own supper with increased fervour.
Thus did that remarkable family spend the small hours of that morning, while their home was being burned to ashes.
“Robin,” said old Mrs Willis from her bed, in the wheeziest of voices.
“Who’s Robin, granny?” demanded young Slidder, in some surprise, looking over his shoulder as he stooped at the fire to stir a pan of gruel.
“You are Robin,” returned the old lady following up the remark with a feeble sneeze. “I can’t stand Slidder. It is such an ugly name. Besides, you ought to have a Christian name, child. Don’t you like Robin?”
The boy chuckled a little as he stirred the gruel.
“Vell, I ain’t had it long enough to ’ave made up my mind on the p’int, but you may call me wot you please, granny, s’long as you don’t swear. I’ll answer to Robin, or Bobin, or Dobin, or Nobin, or Flogin—no, by the way, I won’t answer to Flogin. I don’t like that. But why call me Robin?”
“Ah!” sighed the old woman, “because I once had a dear little son so named. He died when he was about your age, and your kindly ways are so like his that—”
“Hallo, granny!” interrupted Slidder, standing up with a look of intense surprise, “are you took bad?”
“No. Why?”
“’Cause you said suthin’ about my ways that looks suspicious.”
“Did I, Robin? I didn’t mean to. But as I was saying, I’d like to call you Robin because it reminds me of my little darling who is now in heaven. Ah! Robin was so gentle, and loving, and tender, and true, and kind. He was a good boy!”
A wheezing, which culminated in another feeble sneeze, here silenced the poor old thing.
For some minutes after that Slidder devoted himself to vigorous stirring of the gruel, and to repressed laughter, which latter made him very red in the face, and caused his shoulders to heave convulsively. At last he sought relief in occasional mutterings.
“On’y think!” he said, quoting Mrs Willis’s words, in a scarcely audible whisper, “‘so gentle, an’ lovin’, an’ tender, an’ true, an’ kind’—an’ sitch a good boy too—an’ my kindly ways is like his, are they? Well, well, Mrs W, it’s quite clear that a loo-natic asylum must be your native ’ome arter this.”
“What are you muttering about, Robin?”
“Nuffin’ partikler, granny. On’y suthin’ about your futur’ prospec’s. The gruel’s ready, I think. Will you ’ave it now, or vait till you get it?”
“There—even in your little touches of humour you’re so like him!” said the old woman, with a mingled smile and sneeze, as she slowly rose to a sitting posture, making a cone of the bedclothes with her knees, on which she laid her thin hands.
“Come now, old ’ooman,” said Slidder seriously, “if you go on jokin’ like that you’ll make me larf and spill your gruel—p’raps let it fall bash on the floor. There! Don’t let it tumble off your knees, now; I’d adwise you to lower ’em for the time bein’. Here’s the spoon; it ain’t as bright as I could wish, but you can’t expect much of pewter; an’ the napkin—that’s your sort; an’ the bit of bread—which it isn’t too much for a ’ealthy happetite. Now then, granny, go in and win!”
“So like,” murmured the old woman, as she gazed in Slidder’s face. “And it is so good of you to give up your play and come to look after a helpless old creature like me.”
“Yes, it is wery good of me,” assented the boy, with an air of profound gravity; “I was used to sleep under a damp archway or in a wet cask, now I slumbers in a ’ouse by a fire, under a blankit. Vunce on a time I got wittles any’ow—sometimes didn’t get ’em at all; now I ’ave ’em riglar, as well as good, an’ ’ot. In wot poets call ‘the days gone by’—an’ nights too, let me tell you—I wos kicked an’ cuffed by everybody, an’ ’unted to death by bobbies. Now I’m—let alone! ’Eavenly condition—let alone! sometimes even complimented with such pleasant greetings as ‘Go it, Ginger!’ or ‘Does your mother know you’re out?’ Oh yes, granny! I made great sacrifices, I did, w’en I come ’ere to look arter you!”
Mrs Willis smiled, sneezed, and began her gruel. Slidder, who looked at her with deep interest, was called away by a knock at the door. Opening it he beheld a tall footman, with a parcel in his hand.
“Does a Mrs Willis live here?” he asked.
“No,” replied Slidder; “a Mrs Willis don’t live here, but the Mrs Willis—the on’y one vurth speakin’ of—does.”
“Ah!” replied the man, with a smile—for he was an amiable footman—“and I suppose you are young Slidder?”
“I am Mister Slidder, sir! And I would ’ave you remember,” said the urchin, with dignity, “that every Englishman’s ’ouse is his castle, and that neither imperence nor flunkies ’as a right to enter.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the man, with affected surprise, “then I’m afraid this castle can’t be a strong one, or it ain’t well guarded, for ‘Imperence’ got into it somehow when you entered.”
“Good, good!” returned the boy, with the air of a connoisseur; “that’s worthy of the East End. You should ’ave bin one of us.—Now then, old six-foot! wot’s your business?”
“To deliver this parcel.”
“’And it over, then.”
“But I am also to see Mrs Willis, and ask how she is.”
“Walk in, then, an’ wipe your feet. We ain’t got a door-mat to-day. It’s a-comin’, like Christmas; but you may use the boards in the meantime.”
The footman turned out to be a pleasant, gossipy man, and soon won the hearts of old Mrs Willis and her young guardian. He had been sent, he said, by a Dr McTougall with a parcel containing wine, tea, sugar, rice, and a few other articles of food, and with a message that the doctor would call and see Mrs Willis that afternoon.
“Deary me, that’s very kind,” said the old woman; “but I wonder why he sent such things to me, and
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