Short Fiction P. G. Wodehouse (good books to read in english .txt) 📖

forget the training I had had from mother, sound as it no doubt was as a general thing, and to adapt myself to the needs of the particular man who had happened to buy me. I had tried mother’s way, and all it had brought me was walloping, so now I would think for myself.

So next night, when I heard the window go, I lay there without a word, though it went against all my better feelings. I didn’t even growl. Someone came in and moved about in the dark, with a lantern, but, though I smelt that it was the man, I didn’t ask him a single question. And presently the man lit a light and came over to me and gave me a pat, which was a thing he had never done before.

“Good dog!” he said. “Now you can have this.”

And he let me lick out the saucepan in which the dinner had been cooked.

After that, we got on fine. Whenever I heard anyone at the window I just kept curled up and took no notice, and every time I got a bone or something good. It was easy, once you had got the hang of things.

It was about a week after that the man took me out one morning, and we walked a long way till we turned in at some big gates and went along a very smooth road till we came to a great house, standing all by itself in the middle of a whole lot of country. There was a big lawn in front of it, and all round there were fields and trees, and at the back a great wood.

The man rang a bell, and the door opened, and an old man came out.

“Well?” he said, not very cordially.

“I thought you might want to buy a good watchdog,” said the man.

“Well, that’s queer, your saying that,” said the caretaker. “It’s a coincidence. That’s exactly what I do want to buy. I was just thinking of going along and trying to get one. My old dog picked up something this morning that he oughtn’t to have, and he’s dead, poor feller.”

“Poor feller,” said the man. “Found an old bone with phosphorus on it, I guess.”

“What do you want for this one?”

“Five shillings.”

“Is he a good watchdog?”

“He’s a grand watchdog.”

“He looks fierce enough.”

“Ah!”

So the caretaker gave the man his five shillings, and the man went off and left me.

At first the newness of everything and the unaccustomed smells and getting to know the caretaker, who was a nice old man, prevented my missing the man, but as the day went on and I began to realize that he had gone and would never come back, I got very depressed. I pattered all over the house, whining. It was a most interesting house, bigger than I thought a house could possibly be, but it couldn’t cheer me up. You may think it strange that I should pine for the man, after all the wallopings he had given me, and it is odd, when you come to think of it. But dogs are dogs, and they are built like that. By the time it was evening I was thoroughly miserable. I found a shoe and an old clothes-brush in one of the rooms, but could eat nothing. I just sat and moped.

It’s a funny thing, but it seems as if it always happened that just when you are feeling most miserable, something nice happens. As I sat there, there came from outside the sound of a motor-bicycle, and somebody shouted.

It was dear old Fred, my old pal Fred, the best old boy that ever stepped. I recognized his voice in a second, and I was scratching at the door before the old man had time to get up out of his chair.

Well, well, well! That was a pleasant surprise! I ran five times round the lawn without stopping, and then I came back and jumped up at him.

“What are you doing down here, Fred?” I said. “Is this caretaker your father? Have you seen the rabbits in the wood? How long are you going to stop? How’s mother? I like the country. Have you come all the way from the public house? I’m living here now. Your father gave five shillings for me. That’s twice as much as I was worth when I saw you last.”

“Why, it’s young Nigger!” That was what they called me at the saloon. “What are you doing here? Where did you get this dog, father?”

“A man sold him to me this morning. Poor old Bob got poisoned. This one ought to be just as good a watchdog. He barks loud enough.”

“He should be. His mother is the best watchdog in London. This cheese-hound used to belong to the boss. Funny him getting down here.”

We went into the house and had supper. And after supper we sat and talked. Fred was only down for the night, he said, because the boss wanted him back next day.

“And I’d sooner have my job, than yours, dad,” he said. “Of all the lonely places! I wonder you aren’t scared of burglars.”

“I’ve my shotgun, and there’s the dog. I might be scared if it wasn’t for him, but he kind of gives me confidence. Old Bob was the same. Dogs are a comfort in the country.”

“Get many tramps here?”

“I’ve only seen one in two months, and that’s the feller who sold me the dog here.”

As they were talking about the man, I asked Fred if he knew him. They might have met at the public house, when the man was buying me from the boss.

“You would like him,” I said. “I wish you could have met.”

They both looked at me.

“What’s he growling at?” asked Fred. “Think he heard something?”

The old man laughed.

“He wasn’t growling. He was talking in his sleep. You’re nervous, Fred. It comes of living in the city.”

“Well, I am. I like this place in the daytime, but it gives me the pip at night.