Chapter 11 Napoleon and the wasp - 1

CHAPTER XI
NAPOLEON AND THE WASP
He tore open the telegram, exclaimed “Thank God,” clapped his hat on, slammed the door in my face, and was gone—all inside a minute.
What had happened, that he had forgotten me? I screamed with rage and disappointment, and scratched at the door, a thing I rarely do, for nothing makes human beings so annoyed as to have their doors marked by dogs.
The cook and the waitress came running from the kitchen. They were very good friends of mine, for I took care to treat them with the respect and consideration that every well-bred dog should show to servants. I always wiped my feet on muddy days, and I never went into the kitchen without an invitation.
“Bless the beast—what’s up with him?” exclaimed cook.
“Something, you may be sure,” said the waitress. “He’s got sense, that dog has. I guess the old man has gone and left him.”
I pulled cook’s cotton dress with my teeth. I led her to the telegram, and nosed it over to her. Alas! I could not read it. That bit of paper had driven master from his home.
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Cook caught it up, and then gave a screech. “She’s gone and done it—doesn’t that jostle you!”
What had who done—mistress I supposed—why didn’t she tell me, and I whined and howled; but they paid no attention to me till Louis came in for his orders, as he usually did at this time in the morning, not sauntering, but hurrying and breathing heavily as if he too were excited.
There was a queer smirk on his face, and he opened his mouth to speak, but he had no chance to say anything for the two women just yelled at him, “We’ve got a baby—we’re just like other folks—read that—ain’t it the superfine!”
Now I thought I would go crazy. I barked, and jumped, and screamed, and no one rebuked me.
Cook sat down in mistress’s chair and fanned herself with her apron, Annie the waitress took master’s chair and drummed her fingers on the table, and Louis sat on the fender-stool with his cap on and whistled.
“Let’s have our coffee in here,” said cook, so they had a lovely time by the fire, and talked about the coming of the baby, and how it would turn the family topsy-turvy.
“The old man wasn’t in last night, was he?” remarked Louis.
“No,” said cook, “he wasn’t—something new for him.”
“That kid elevator boy gave me some mouth about it,” said Louis sheepishly.
“What did he say?” asked Annie.
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“Grinned like a fool, and asked me where my old man got that dust on his coat and hat.”
I whined eagerly. Oh, if I could only speak, and tell them it was cathedral dust. Rich people don’t know what sharp-eyed critics they have in their dogs, and cats and servants.
“I hope you gave him a smack,” said Annie.
“Bet yer life, didn’t I,” said Louis. “Says I, ‘Young feller, if my old man was out all night, he in no mischief were—he ain’t that colour—see!’ and I digged him under the ribs.”
Cook and Annie shrieked with laughter, and said they’d have their dig at the elevator boy too, then finally they all went to their work. Cook invited me politely to sit in the kitchen, but after my breakfast I ran to master’s room and sat on the window seat looking up and down the Drive. I waited for him till late in the afternoon. Then I knew he would be better pleased to have me taking the air, so I ran to the hall door, and barked till Annie opened it. The elevator boy took me down below, and the door-man let me out on the sidewalk.
It was a pleasant day with a brisk wind sweeping in off the Hudson. Many nurses and children were out, and many dogs. I knew all the canines in this neighbourhood by sight now, and had a speaking acquaintance with all those worth knowing. I ran into one of the little parks, and there saw a group of dogs without leashes who were standing talking together, and gazing at a Dachshund who was conceitedly staring in[110] what he thought was the direction of Germany, but what was really Hoboken.
“Good afternoon, boys,” I said, “what’s the news?”
“We’re just deciding which of us shall have the pleasure of licking that hyphenated-American dog,” said a handsome, black French bulldog. “For days he’s been pushing that griffon Bruxelles about, and some of us think it’s time for us to stand up for the Belgian dog. To-day, the news of the war has been very good for the Germans, and the Dachshund has been positively unbearable.”
“I’d like to have the honour of settling him,” said an Irish wolfhound, “but the odds wouldn’t be even.”
A Scotch terrier bristled up, “I maunna, canna, winna yield the privilege to none. I hae it.”
“It’s mine,” said a Welsh terrier angrily.
I burst out laughing. “Fight him if you like. You’ll fight me after.”
They stared at me, and the Dachshund threw me a grateful glance.
“This is a free country for dogs as well as men,” I said. “Let him talk. Don’t listen, if you don’t like what he says.”
“Are you a pro-German?” enquired an English bulldog furiously.
“If you are, I’ll chew you up,” an Irish terrier seconded him.
In reality, I am a dog that is for the Allies, but I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of telling them.
“Gentlemen dogs,” I said, “I’m not talking about who I’m for, or who I’m against——”
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“You should say ‘whom,’” interjected an English setter who was a great purist as regards dog language.
“Thank you,” I said bowing to him, “I’m for free speech. Say what you like, as long as you’re not insulting.”
“He was insulting,” said the whole group of dogs. “He said that Riverside Drive would soon be German.”
“That’s not insulting,” I replied, “why, that’s flattering. Think what a nice place it must be, if the Germans want it.”
Every dog showed his teeth—I don’t know what the upshot would have been, if their various owners had not called them and put their muzzles on. While we had been gossiping, the ladies had been talking together. They were very nice ladies, and law-abiding in general, but they did so hate the muzzle law, and were so sorry to see their poor dogs pawing their noses in misery, that they had the habit of carrying the muzzles in their hands, and slipping them on the dogs when they saw a policeman coming. It certainly was absurd to see baby spaniels, and toy dogs of all kinds with muzzles on their tiny noses. They couldn’t have bitten hard if they had tried.
As the dogs who had been growling about the Dachshund left, they threw furious backward glances at the conceited little scamp who ran up to me, and licked gratefully a little piece of mud off my back.
“Danke schön,” he murmured.
“Can’t you control yourself a bit?” I asked, “and[112] not be so indiscreet? There wasn’t a German dog in that crowd. You’d have had a bite or two, if I hadn’t come along.”
“It was for the Fatherland,” he exclaimed, “and the sacred domestic hearth prized by dogs as well as men.”
“You say that like a little parrot,” I remarked, “and I don’t believe you bullied that griffon on your own responsibility. You’ve always been a good dog up to within a week. Who’s been coaching you?”
The little dog instead of answering, looked mad, and nipped me quite quickly on the hind leg.
“Oh! you saucy hyphen,” I said—his name was Grosvater-Leinchen, and I rolled him over and over a few times in the dust, like a little four-legged worm.
He got up, looking very dusty, and shook himself.
“Who’s been debauching you?” I said fiercely. “Come on now—I can bite as well as any dog,” and I showed him two rows of strong teeth.
“If I make new friends, it’s no business of yours,” he said sulkily.
“Oho!” I said. “I know now. It’s that new German police dog that has come to the Drive. So he told you the patter about the domestic hearth. Now I’ll tell you something more. He’s a stranger, he doesn’t fit in here. You’re a New Yorker, and subject to the law of the Drive, which is that a dog must function.”
“I don’t know what that is,” he said irritably.
“Why, you’ve got to fit in here, and play the game. You must respect the rights of other dogs,[113] and not impose your little Dachshund will on us. Did you ever hear of liberty, equality, fraternity?”
“No,” he said in an ugly little voice, that told me the spell of the police dog was still upon him.
“Well,” I said, “for you, that means that if the griffon gets here first, and wants the warmest patch of sunlight, you’ve got to let him have it. You’ve no business to drive him out.”
“But I’m a bigger dog,” he said in surprise, “and I’m German. He’s only a Belgian.”
“Oho! that’s it, is it?” I replied. “You think German dogs lead the universe.”
“Of course they do.”
“Well then, if they do, they ought to be perfect.”
“They are perfect,” he said in astonishment. “Didn’t you know that?”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t. I believed American dogs, and English dogs, and even coloured dogs, are just as good as German dogs, if they behave themselves.”
“You’re a socialist,” he said, “a dangerous dog.”
I stared at his ridiculous, little, short-legged swagger, as he swung up and down before me.
“Now I’m going to tell you something,” I said, “as force alone appeals to you. That little griffon belongs, as you probably know, to Mrs. Warrington whose sister married an Englishman—Lord Alstone. Now I happen to know that Lady Alstone is to arrive here to-morrow on a visit to her sister, and with her ladyship comes her English mastiff. You’re probably going to get the greatest licking a dog ever got, for the griffon and the mastiff are always very chummy,[114] and he will be sure to tell of the treatment he has been receiving from you. A family dog will fight you far harder than outsiders like the Drive dogs.”
The Dachshund looked alarmed.
“I’m sorry for you,” I said, “auf wiedersehen.”
“I say,” he exclaimed hopping after me, “I don’t want to be torn to pieces.”
“How can you be,” I retorted, “you’re perfect—being a super-dog, you’ll find a way out.”
“If that mastiff hurts me, the police dog will kill him,” he said angrily.
“Ah! perhaps,” I observed. “Of course the police dog is a good size, but an English mastiff——”
The Dachshund looked still more thoughtful. “I believe I’ll let the griffon have the sunny corner in future,” he said. “After all, I’m not living in Germany. I’ll tell the police dog I’ve got to be American, as long as I’m here. If I go back to Germany, I can be German.”
“All right,” I said heartily. “That’s a wise dog. Now why don’t you run right on to the griffon’s house, and tell him that? Get your story in before the mastiff arrives.”
Off hopped Mr. Dachshund across the Drive, keeping a bright look-out for policemen, and I felt that in future he would be friendly with the griffon.
I chuckled to myself, as I ran on to the Bonstones, for that was my objective point. Evil communications corrupt good manners even in dogs.
The air was delicious. I had no muzzle on, so I went slowly, and with a wary eye for those nice men[115] the police, who would be our best friends if it weren’t for the health commissioner. It is a great fashion with some persons to run down policemen. I always like them and firemen, and have no admiration whatever for soldiers. I hate to see things torn and mangled. Policemen and firemen try to keep things together, and I believe if every policeman in every big city had a good police dog, there would be less killing and wounding of human beings.
The New York policemen are sharp, so I had to do a good deal of dodging behind pillars and in shrubbery, and twice I had to run away down to the river bank to elude them. It was close on dinner time, when I reached the Bonstone mansion.
I ran round to the back to get in. Fortunately the chauffeur, who was a friend of Louis, knew me, and when I whined, he left the car he was cleaning in the garage, and opening a side door of the house, said, “Run in, purp—I’ll bet you’ve come to call on the bride.”
I had, and I ran through back halls and passages right up to her bed-room. She was dressing, not for her own dinner only, but for a fancy dress ball to be held in the house of a friend afterward. She looked like the most beautiful picture I ever saw. Most women don’t look like pictures, but she nearly always does. She was putting on the costume Sir Walter had told me about—the wasp creation, with the gauzy wings and fluffy flounces. The skirt was rather short, and showed pretty striped stockings—yellow and black, Sir Walter said they were. Then there were tiny little[116] satin shoes—oh! she certainly was very gauzy, and waspy and pretty.
Miss Stanna, or perhaps I should now say Mrs. Bonstone, had a French maid dressing her—a well-trained one, for her mistress had scarcely to open her lips to give directions.
Once she murmured, “Trop serrée;” and another time she said, “Les gants jaunes.”
Her flowers were lovely—orchids that nodded like big insects, and looked the shade of her gown.
When she glided from the room, the maid, who was a merry-looking creature herself, stared after her, and said with quite an English accent, “She knows how to get herself up—the monkey.”
Her voice was kind when she said it. We dogs don’t take much stock in words; it’s the tone that counts with us.
I don’t believe Mrs. Bonstone would ever be unkind to any one, unless they deserved a good scolding, in which case I think she could give it.
Well, I travelled on behind the wasp gown down to the drawing-room. Mrs. Bonstone had greeted me politely, when I went in, but very dreamily. Her alert mind was not at present on dogs.
Sir Walter stood under the statue of a Grecian boy in the lower hall, and as usual was the essence of courtesy. He came forward to greet me, bowing his noble head politely, and never saying a word about my not having called sooner, escorted me into the fine, big room, which had been done over with furnishings in which a lot of gold glittered.