Chapter 21
CHAPTER XXI. The Tiger Becomes a Lamb. Jippie was tired out, and in an execrable temper he had had to trot home all the way from the Tracy's, for his mistress was carrying a long bundle under one arm and a good sized basket on the other, and now that she was in sight of the house she was fairly running,
and he could scarcely keep up with her. Her head was turned far round, she was looking over her shoulder in the direction away from the front of the house, and yet she went right to the spot where the unfortunate poacher had fallen. Jippie knew very well what all her emotion was about, like some deaf and partly blind
human beings, he was more aware of happenings than people supposed. Poacher was dead, and he was not sorry for it, for he had been desperately jealous of him, and limping up to his mistress he impatiently whined to claim recognition. Oh Jippie, what shall I do? She moaned.
What shall I do? He was so good and gentle. I can't go in. I can't go in. She was on her knees on the snow, her hands were wandering over the depression where Poacher
had lain. Her face was so pale and unhappy that even Jippie's selfish heart was touched, and standing on his hind legs to reach her shoulder he tenderly licked her right ear inside and out, until she brushed him aside with a half laugh, half sob, and a murmured, You tickle my ear Jippie.
He got up and moved slowly toward the back door, while the dog trotted along nimbly on his three legs after her. Why, what a vault! And Jippie shivered and turned his short-sighted eyes in the direction of the kitchen stove. It was black and cold, and the old man, sitting in the draftiest corner of the room, right
by the cellar door, was a dull, mottled purple. He did not speak when the door opened. He was morose and silent, and his whole appearance was that of a man in extreme distress. Jippie was an excellent hater, and it did him good to see the old man suffer, however he did not care to suffer with him, and squealing dismally.
He planted himself near the delinquent stove. Tilda Jane's listlessness and painful depression were gone. With a quick exclamation, she had dropped her basket and bundle, and had sprung to the kindling box. There was nothing in it.
She rushed to the woodshed, came back with a handful of sticks and paper, and by dint of extra-quick movements had, in an astonishingly short pace of time, a good fire roaring up the chimney. Then she turned to the old man, who was still sitting in stony silence. I am afraid your most froze, sir.
Can't you come nyer the fire? Dillson's eyelids were swollen with the cold, but there was still room for a disagreeable twinkle to glimmer through. He would say nothing, however, and Tilda Jane, approaching the long, peculiar-looking bundle, opened it, took out a pair of crutches, and handed them to him with a humble, supplicating
air. He crawled farther under the stove, and, lowering his head, awaited developments, but there was no danger of a blow from the old man. His hands were so benumbed that he could not hold the crutches. They slipped to the floor with a crash, and, opening his purple lips, he ejaculated the
word, T. Ain't you had nothing since I left? inquired Tilda Jane sharply. Dillson shook his head. You ain't been sitting there all night.
He nodded his head this time. Tilda Jane's face took on an expression of dismay, and she flew around the kitchen. The warm atmosphere was now enrapping the old man in a most agreeable manner, and when Tilda Jane handed him the big cup, he grunted something between an expression of thanks and a desire that she should hold to his lips.
While he greedily drank the hot liquid, Tilda Jane, with a queer choking in her throat, addressed broken remarks to him. I didn't know, sir, I was hoping someone would come in. I was most crazy about the dog. I forgot all about you till just now.
More, he said shortly. When Tilda Jane put the cup down, she refilled it. Then, as his hands began to get supple and he could manipulate it himself, she uncovered the basket Mrs. Tracy had given her. I didn't look in before, she exclaimed.
Oh, the beauty eggs. And she carefully unrolled a napkin. And the white rolls and Washington cake and a me pie and a tart. I say, Grandpa will have a good dinner. The old man looked strangely at her, but she went on unheatingly.
They're just boss people. I'm glad I went and talked to them. I'm sorry I was so ugly to you, Grandpa. And if you don't want me, I guess I better go away. She spoke quite humbly and naturally and as she did so, she raised her head and glanced
in Dillson's direction. He made no response and she went on. I've been a very bad little girl, but I'm going to be better. And you just tell me what you want me to do, Grandpa, and I'll do it. And if you don't want to talk, you just write it.
I know you're a big man, and maybe you don't want to talk to a little girl like me, but I'll not lay it up again. You just do what you want, and I'm not trying to come around you, because I expect you'll send me off quicker in a flash so soon as you get someone else. Her lips were trembling and her face was bright and expectant, but the old man gave her no
satisfaction. Hand me some of that pie, he said unexpectedly. Can you wait till I set the table and make it look real pretty, Grandpa? She said coaxingly. Dillson was nearly starved and, without a word, held out his hand in a commanding fashion.
All right, Grandpa, she said gently and she handed him a generous slice. Any thin you like. This is your house. It ain't mine. Watching her meanwhile out of a corner of his eye, bread and meat, he said when he had
finished. Tilda Jane supplied this want and earnestly watched these beans going the way of the pie. More tea, he said, when they got gone. When he had eaten and drunk to an alarming extent, he pointed to the crutches. Where did you get them?
I saw them in a window, Grandpa. A great big druggist's window. And I went in and said to the man, can you trust me for them? I'll pay you. Sure, Pop, if you'll give me time.
I'm going to be a good girl now and never tell no more lies nor steal nor do anything bad. But he just said, ever so grumpy. This is a cast down, no credit system store. But I wasn't cast down and I said, suppose you was a lame man and a bad little girl burnt
up your crutches. How would you feel? Then he looked kind o' solemn and said, whose crutches was burnt up? And I said, Mr. Hobart Dillson's crutches. And he said, what girl burnt them?
I said, a little girl that don't know where to look. Then he asked what you said when I burnt your crutches. And I said, you didn't say much. You just cussed. Then he turned his face round to the bottles.
And when he looked out, it was red. And he was shaken all over, like as if he's been crying. And he just pointed to the crutches and said, take them and welcome. Dillson's head dropped on his breast. This girl had evidently gone to Peter Jurrit's store.
Peter Jurrit, who had owed him a grudge ever since the day he went in, and denounced him before a store full of customers for overcharging him for prescriptions. Peter had actually dared to pity him, Hobart Dillson. And so he let the girl have the crutches, not caring whether he ever got paid or not. Well, he hadn't thought Peter would ever pity him.
And drawing his crutches toward him, Dillson cautiously lifted himself and tried his weight upon them. Yes, he could walk. He would go to bed and think over Peter's conduct. It affected him, but he must not look soft.
Open my door, he said to Tilda Jane, while she flew to obey his command. The old man heard a low whine near him and remembered Poacher. The dog had recognized the girl's voice and would soon make himself known. He might as well have the credit of his discovery. If she had come home sulky, he would have allowed her to find the dog for herself.
But she was meek and pitiful, and she had also secretly pleased him by addressing him as Grandpa. In tones of such respect and affection, she had improved decidedly, and he exclaimed her imptorially, Hear you.
Tilda Jane ran out from the bedroom, where she was turning down the icy sheets in the bed so that the chill might be taken from them. Open this door, ordered the old man. With a wondering air, Tilda Jane threw back the cellar door. Then she gave a joyful scream.
There, standing on the top step, cold and shivering, half famished, but alive and well, was her beloved Poacher. She tried to catch him around the neck, but he flew past her into the kitchen, came back like a shot, and, dashing up her back, licked her neck, sprang into the air, and again racing round and round the room, brought on what she herself would call a com-bob-eration.
The old man was so near that Poacher, in his wild gyrations to and fro, swept one of his crutches from him. Tilda Jane, even in the midst of her astonished and ecstatic glee, perceived this and stooped down to recover the lost article. But she could not lay her hand on it, for the excited dog, with his head in the air
and his tongue hanging out, made repeated dashes at her, beside her, behind her. He was everywhere that she was, and Jippy was after him for, snorting with rage and mortification at the resuscitation of his rival, he had bounded from under the stove, and, with his maimed tail wagging excitedly in the air, was biting, snapping, growling at Poacher's heels, nipping him fiercely, if not by chance he paused a second to rest.
The noise and confusion were overcoming, and the old man, holding firmly to his remaining crutch and grasping the back of a chair, grimly surveyed the scene. Finally, Tilda Jane secured the crutch, and pantingly, brushing back her disheveled hair, she passed it to him across the dog's backs. Poacher had now sunk on the floor at her feet, while Jippy was exerting his feeble
strength in trying to crowd him away from Tilda Jane's stout shoe. Forgive us, Grandpa, dear Grandpa, she said beseechingly, but it's such a joyful occasion, such occasion, my heart never felt so big in my life, it's all swolled up. Oh, ain't you sweet to prepare this surprise for me, when I come back just now? I thought my pet was buried in the cold ground.
Oh, I just love you, and climbing over the quarreling dogs, she seized the bunch of knuckles nearest her and kissed them fervently. The old man slowly uncurled his fist and looked at it. How many years was it since anyone had kissed him? He put the crutch under his arm and turned toward the bedroom.
Good night, Grandpa, dear Grandpa, floated sweetly after him. The girl was down on the floor with her dogs. Her arm was around the hound's black neck. The three-legged atrocity was pressed to her side. She was happy, yes, happy, as happy as a fool, he grumbled to himself.
Nothing to annoy her, nothing to trouble her. Wait till she got older, and life's worries began to crowd around her, and with an impatient groan, the old man flung himself down on the chair by his bed. End of chapter 21
