menu_book Chapter 12

CHAPTER XII. GRANDPA'S DRIVE. The old man took hold of the soft, wriggling creature beside him and tried to balance him on his knees. In vain, Puppy doubled his legs under him, opened his mouth, bit at everything within

reach, turned and twisted, till Grandpa, in perplexity, called out, He's all gristle. I don't believe there's a bone in his body. Get a table or something to prop him on. Perletta, only too happy to leave her work to fuss with animals, propelled herself leisurely into the front of the house and brought out a little table from the parlour.

Grandpa put the puppy on it, and Perletta held his legs while Tilda Jane, with scissors and paper, cut out a pattern of a little coat. Make it come well over his chest, said Grandpa, remember his weak throat. He won't stand up, sir, said Tilda Jane anxiously. He's made up his mind to lie down.

I never see a pup so sought in his ways, remarked Perletta solemnly. In a few minutes they were all exhausted. The two girls had fallen into helpless laughter at the pup's antics. Grandpa only was grim and determined and spurred on by him, till Tilda Jane at last controlled herself sufficiently to cut out something that had the semblance of a coat.

Now lay it on the cloth, exclaimed Grandpa, releasing the little creature, who spun round and round the kitchen like a top, cut it out large and generous. It's too black, he said, when Tilda Jane at last held up the tiny garment. Looks as if he was in mourning. Put on something bright.

Some red braid would be real cute, said Tilda Jane, but we haven't any in the house. Go downtown, said Grandpa. I plenty, don't cut him short. Tilda Jane glanced at the clock, then at the big kitchen table, littered with preparations for more cooking.

Saturday morning is a busy time, she said. Grandpa began to dance one of his crutches up and down on the floor, a sign of great mental disturbance. Do you want that pup to die? I tell you he can't go to drive with his chest uncovered.

Tilda Jane glanced at him anxiously. Then she said, Grandpa dear, don't you worry. I'll start right off, and after a few hurried directions to Perletta, she scurried down the street in the direction of the shops. By dinner time the coat was stitched, trimmed and buttoned on the pup, and his hank came

in the front door. The final trying on was in process. He burst into a great guffaw of laughter. Hey doggy! You look like a king!

The pup always excited by Hank's good-natured jovial voice, made abound, broke from his attendance and dashed round and round the kitchen, under the stove, the table and chairs, his eyes wild and wicked, his wide mouth open, his pink tongue hanging. Hank gave a loud whoop every time he passed him. Hi, little demon!

Go it! Hurrah for the black and red! Catch him! Catch him! called Grandpa in distress.

He'll roast alive in that thick coat in this hot kitchen. He'll have a coughing spell. That's so! shouted Hank agreeably. Don't fret, we'll corner him. Tilted Jane looked out for that hurdle there.

Perletta stand by the stone wall, and he indicated the old-fashioned fireplace where the stove sat. After many false dives and swoopings after the nimble little fellow, and after Perletta had broken two plates and a pitcher in her wild plunges, Puppy was secured, his coat unbuttoned, and he laid panting and exhausted across Grandpa's knees.

Some cold water for him, commanded the old man. He's hot, he's on fire. Hold on a bit, Father, said Hank consolingly. He'll cool down. Play has to go on in the world, and pups and children and other young creatures are made

to carry on that very thing. You keep your eye off him, replied Grandpa. Decidedly, you put the mischief in him. You're a slave, sir, said Hank obediently, and during dinner time he did not once glance at the still mischievous animal, who in vain tried to attract his attention.

Now, sir, said Hank, when the dinner was over. All on board for the sleigh ride? Yes, yes, said Grandpa, getting up from his chair. Tilda Jane, come put on my snow boots. Yes, Grandpa, I'm just warming them under the stove, said the little girl, and here's

your big overcoat. I brought it in from the front hall to take the chill off. Twenty minutes later, the beautiful milkweed stood by the back door, thoughtfully pawing the snow with one slender hoof, while Tilda Jane and Perletta assisted Grandpa into the sleigh.

Put the hot water can under his feet, Perletta, said Tilda Jane, and give me that hot water bag, please. What's that? What's that? asked Grandpa, suspiciously as the little girl thrust something soft on his knees.

I ain't a woman. I shan't carry a muff. I've seen a picture of the Emperor of Germany carrying a muff when he was going hunting, said Hank, and I guess Tilda Jane thinks you're getting so tony now, with a horse and a dog and new clothes, that you'll want to shine up to his German ship.

It isn't a muff, Grandpa, said Tilda Jane soothingly. It's a hot water bag wrapped in a shawl. What does the girl take me for? asked Grandpa in pretentious discontent. I ain't as old and feeble as she thinks.

No, Grandpa, but we don't want you to get so. Besides, the hot bag will be just the thing for the pup. See how he curls up on it? You may leave it then, said the old man. I'm much obliged.

Get out yourself, Tilda. Have a walk. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. And she waved her hand as Hank clucked to Milkweed, and they went gaily out of the yard

and down the street, with sleigh bells dancing and ringing. Perletta, she said, as they turned to enter the house, it's a lovely day. Would you like to go out? I ain't got no one to go with, said Perletta in a glum voice. You may go with me, said Tilda Jane kindly.

I have some shopping to do downtown. Will you take me to the moving pictures? asked the disagreeable girl, as if she were conferring a favor on Tilda Jane by accepting her offer. Yes, if I have time.

We must clear up here first. Grandpa and Hank were driving down French Row. I guess we'll go out in the country, said Hank. The snow is just about right depth. Go downtown, said Grandpa.

I want you to buy something for me. Downtown, said Hank disconsolately. Then he added cheerfully. All right, sir. What do you want?

A hall stove. A hall stove? repeated Hank. And he stared at his father and then dropped his eyes to the wide awake pup, who with just his young head peering from the fur was greedily drinking in the scenery on this, his first drive.

I bet it's for that pup, he said under his breath. That monied pup. His father heard him. Partly for the pup, Hank, he said mildly. Partly for the little girl.

The house is cold. And I've got a little extra money I thought I'd spend it. We've always got on without one, said Hank. Piers to me were snug enough. The fire in the kitchen all day.

One in the dining room evenings. Grandpa did not bear opposition well. You're a great fat lout, he said with some heat. I'm old and my blood is thin. Tilda Jane ain't strong.

And the pup is sappy and has a ratlin in his throat, laughed Hank. Go ahead, Dad. Just as you say. I'll buy two hall stoves if you like. One for upstairs, one for down.

And as he spoke, he turned Milkweed's head toward the center of the town. I guess you and Sissy and the pup are worth a stove. I know I don't feel the cold, but I ain't selfish. After they had dashed through one snowy street after another and had brought up with a flourish in front of Saskasset's leading stove store, Hank turned to his father.

Now, sir, what kind of a heating machine do you want? Give me the lines, said Grandpa, bringing his hands quite warm thanks to Tilda Jane's hot water bag from beneath the fur rug. Go into the store, buy a stove. I don't care what kind.

Have it put up. I'll pay for it. You've struck a gold mine. Sure, said Hank with a chuckle. However, I'll make him give me a good discount off for cash, he added, as his father handed

him a roll of bills. And I'll not bother you about choosing it. Don't chafe if I say a spell. Milkweed will stand like a lady unless someone throws a bometer. That ain't likely to happen here, said Grandpa.

Still it might. I'll keep a grip of the lines. A good driver never lets them go, no matter if his animal is perfection. Hank chuckled again, and pushing his cap a little on one side, went into the store feeling quite important, as he always did now in his new role of a family man.

Better than being a lonely old coot, a chasin' himself about the country, he said under his breath. While Grandpa sat in the sleigh, trying to straighten his old back and hold his head up being quite well aware of the fine appearance he presented in his good coat, his warm fur To say nothing of the handsome sleigh and the graceful milkweed, his eyes lighted on

someone driving swiftly down the street. Cisgasset was fortunate in having a very wide main street. On each side were stores that were unusually fine for a small town, where persons were hurriedly passing in and out, intent on their Saturday shopping. The middle of the street was as lively as the sidewalks, but among all the driving sleighs

and delivery sleighs and big teams from the country, Grandpa's eye rested on the smart dark blue cutter, where a man sat alone, handling his reins in a masterly fashion. As if hypnotized by the old man's admiring eye, the occupant of the cutter pulled up when he got near him and guided his horse close beside Milkweed, and then a trifle past her, so that he could talk comfortably with Grandpa.

Good day, sir, said the old man stiffly, but agreeably. I am glad to see you out, said Mr. Waysmith, and he gave one comprehensive glance over the horse, the sleigh, and the neatly dressed old man. There's one thing, sir, you don't see, said Grandpa proudly, and he lifted the fur cover on his knee.

Mr. Waysmith's face lighted up strangely, and Grandpa lifted out the warm and cozy puppy. He's gone to sleep, sir. Gets tired easy. Youth and old age are alike in that respect. Let me see him, please, said the merchant.

And reaching over, he transferred the puppy to his own knees. The little dog, still in the first blush of youth, and having puppy confidence in all the world, woke up at this treatment, and finding himself in the hands of a stranger, fell into an ecstasy, and began to lick his gloves, and any part of his face that his pink tongue could reach.

You'll get over that when you're older, said Mr. Waysmith under his breath. father muffles, and only recognize your friends. Keep still, wriggler, he said aloud. I want to look at you. And slipping off the new coat, he carefully examined him.

Head, chest, back, and legs. He's a beauty, he said, in a low, utterly contented voice. Points almost perfect. How is his health? Good except his throat, said Grandpa.

It's weak. Better put on his coat, sir. See he's beginning to cough. That weakness will likely pass away, said Mr. Waysmith, in a tone of deep satisfaction. The first few weeks are the ticklish ones with this breed.

I hope he's not a great trouble to you. Well, said Grandpa, after a slight hesitation, he's a perfect gentleman, if you let him have his own way. Not very different in that respect from human beings, said Mr. Waysmith. And though he addressed Grandpa, his eyes remained fixed on the small animal.

His passion for dogs was so profound that he could not conceal his intense interest in them, and in this little fellow in particular. And Grandpa shrewd enough to perceive this, and being also extremely anxious to let Mr. that he was trying to make some return for his favors to him, said, He's a great pet, sir.

We've no child in our home. He most fills the place. Does he? Said Mr. Waysmith in tones of great gratification. I hope the little girl does not find him too much care.

No, sir. She sets great store by him and never gets out of patience. He destroys things, I suppose. Well, sir, I may say he does by times. No need to show up all that goes on in your house, remarked Grandpa stoutly, and he tried

to forget the chewed-off corner of the red plush chair and a ripped-up silk umbrella that he had noticed just before he left home. What do you want us to call him, sir? He went on. He's quite a dog.

Ought to have a name. I have not yet settled on a name for him, said Mr. Waysmith. I will let you know later. Hank's been reading an Irish story to me, evening, said Grandpa, and in my mind I call this fellow after the hero, Handy Andy, the wild Irishman.

Later in life, Lord Scatterbrain. Mr. Waysmith smiled. So Hank reads Samuel Lover stories, does he? Rory O'More is another. I dare say it would be a good plan to start this family of dogs with Irish names.

We will call this little chap Handy Andy, then. Andy for short. Very good, sir. And Grandpa tucked the shivering pup nearer the hot water bag. You got my check, Dillson?

asked Mr. Waysmith. Yes, sir. It's far too much. The pup don't cost near that much. Don't send any more till I ask for it.

Mr. Waysmith smiled peculiarly and touched his horse lightly with the whip. Goodbye, Dillson. He don't like to be dictated to, muttered Grandpa. Best to let him alone. What he sends will in time make up a snug sum for the little girl.

If it hadn't been for her, I'd not be sitting here, for Hank would not have come home. She's done it all, but we mustn't spoil her. Where's that boy of mine? And he glanced through the big glass windows where stoves of all sizes exhibited themselves in stolid rows to the gaze of the passers-by.

Hank, who had struck a good bargain some time ago, had been dodging about behind the stoves waiting for Mr. Waysmith to go away. All very well for him and Father to eat off the same plate, he said. If I stick my spoon in, I'll get a wrap over the knuckles. Father's an old man and I'm young, and Mr. Waysmith's understrapper.

Hands off, no familiarity, etc., etc. Still, Dad," he went on, drawing on his thick fur gloves as he sauntered out to the sleigh, "'I guess you had a caller.' His father handed him the reins without a word. "'Did he take much stock in the pup?'

asked Hank mischievously. "'The moneyed pup?' he added under his breath. Still his father did not speak and he continued. "'Mr. Waysmith don't make much of dogs by all outward signs.

That bulldog of his follows him about with a tired, don't-care waddle. If Mr. Waysmith stops short, Dog goes and lies down, way off, and stares in the other direction as if he don't belong to him. But he knows what goes on better than if he was by his side, and I'm kind of suspicious of that friendship.

Mr. Waysmith is a great man to pretend he's awful hard and flinty, and he ain't. I believe he likes dogs.' Grandpa apparently had no opinion on the subject, for he resolutely kept his mouth shut. And Hank threw a waggish wink in the direction of the pup, who at this instant stuck his moist young nose from under the rug.

Then seeing that no information was to be extracted from his father, he turned his attention to Milkweed and politely requested her to go up Kennebago Street instead of going home as she wished to do. I wish I loved business the way you love your stable, Hank said to her. And Milkweed being a horse of asocial and reasonable disposition turned her head as

if she really understood what he said. Why shouldn't a fellow talk to his horse? Her master often said, There's more pleasure and profit in conversing with them than with some human beings, and it's a lot safer. Whoever heard of a horse giving away a secret?

Grandpa remained sunk in his reverie, so Hank, who was at almost all times a fluent and continuous talker, kept on favoring Milkweed with sundry observations on the persons and turnouts they met. They were now getting toward the residence part of Ciscasset. In common with many other places, the stores were gradually advancing, eating up fine houses

and forcing the lovers of quiet and extensive grounds to move further and further from the center of commerce. Just where houses began to alternate with stores, Hank exclaimed suddenly, Why, there's Tilda Jane and Perletta and Poacher and Gippie, all sky-gazing except Gippie. Grandpa stared and saw that the other members of his family were indeed apparently gazing

up into the sky. Hank pulled Milkweed up near the sidewalk. Well, Sissy, do you see an airship or, as per Letta's last bit of common sense, gone sailing into the blue? Tilda Jane turned round with a start.

Oh, Hank, is it you? We're listening to the pigeons. There's a young one there being fed. See him follow his parents and shake his wings? Hank drew his cap over his eyes and looked at the top of the tall house near them.

Sure enough, he said, there is a young one there. Spring is coming, but it's powerful early for street pigeons to be making nests. They must be well fed. What is it? asked Grandpa.

I'm a bit snow-blind from the glare. It's three sooty-looking pigeons, said Hank, two old, one young, and the young one is following the old one round that flat roof, flapping his big wings and yelling for his supper. He's most the size of his parents, but he can't feed himself. Listen to his voice, how callow it is.

There he's getting something. No, he isn't. He's in such a hurry that he stepped over the edge of the roof. Now he's flying across the street to the opposite houses. You can see him now.

Yes, Grandpa could and did see him. He's like a cow, he said. Not quite so black, Dad. Bless me, he's off that roof now. I vow this is his first flight.

He goes in a wobbly fashion, so, so steady. He spoke soothingly to Milkweed, who, to her surprise, suddenly found a black bird dashing by her head. He's astonished himself as well as you, Milkweed, said Hank as the dark pigeon went precipitately fluttering over the snowy road and onto the sidewalk.

Pussy willows and grimalkens, till de Jane has turned a cat in the pan. Hank had burst into a sonorous feel of laughter, and Grandpa, who saw nothing amusing, fell into a nervous fit of irritability. Hush up, he exclaimed. You sound like a foghorn.

What's the matter, anyway? You're so big I can't see a past you. Sir, said Hank, clapping one broad hand over his mouth to check his laughter, I just saw two cats and one was sissy. The turtese head away sulkily.

Truly, sir, said Hank. Tilda did make a leap in the air. You know, though, usually she ain't a rusher. She can be quick as a flash when the times call for lightning. That black pigeon was kiting over the snow and got under that yard fence.

A gray cat who was sneaking, the deer only knows where, sprang on it like a tiger. Tilda couldn't get over the fence, but she gave a leap in the air and hurled her shopping bag in the cat's face. Pussy ran, you may be sure, with poacher after her. Then the dog came back, crawled under the fence, seized the day's bird in his mouth,

and carried it to Tilda, who now has it pressed to the breast of that warm brown coat you gave her. Sissy, come here, he said, raising his voice. The little girl turned and, holding the pigeon firmly, walked toward the sleigh. Let's see your windfall, said Hank.

I guess it's all right, only frightened. But it can't fly straight, shouldn't have left the roof. Or all who flutter their wings and fly, a hawk is hovering in the sky. Only in this case it was a cat. What shall I do with it?

asked Tilda Jane anxiously. Could we get it to the top of that high building, and if we did, would it stay there? Law knows, said Hank. It would likely blunder down again, and Pussy would get it. Let me feel it.

It's a pretty fat squab, or squeaker, now that it's left the nest. Turn your head, and I'll wring its neck and take it home. We'll make a tasty pie for Father's Sunday dinner. Tilda Jane seized the pigeon and shrank away from him in dismay. What, you want to keep it, said Hank?

Well, I'll not snatch it. Trying to oblige a good little girl like you. Cuddle it right up to you, and when I get home I'll show you how to feed it. But he added teasingly, don't let Perletta get it in her clutches. She looks as if she would like to eat something alive, and with a final chuckle he drove swiftly

up the street. What's the matter with Perletta? asked Grandpa curiously. When I spoke of killing the pigeon, her eyes flashed, and she doubled up her big fists me to the earth, the snowy earth. Didn't you hear her muttering to herself?

She's half simpleton, but she's good to animals. Tilda Jane was trotting rapidly along the street in the opposite direction, holding the trembling bird inside her warm coat, while she muttered tenderly, Poor little housetop, you shan't be eaten. I will be a mother to you.