menu_book Chapter 20

CHAPTER XX. THE SON OF MUFFLES. The old man had been sleeping, in such a profound, though disturbed, way that it took him a few seconds to recover himself. He lay puffing and panting for breath, with only sense enough to relax to hold on to the struggling dog, whose young eyes were starting from his head.

While he lay trying to come out of his dazed condition, he suddenly became aware of a changed state of the atmosphere. He could not get his breath, for the air was supercharged with smoke. He was now wide awake, and his brain moved with the rapidity of younger days. The house was on fire. The little dog with the strange instinct of protection belonging to dogdom had roused him, and his duty done, now lay quietly on his chest. He knew that his master was awake.

A quick glad thought flashed through the old man's excited brain. The small animal had done his duty, and had got rid of responsibility. Now he was waiting, waiting even for death, should Grandpa choose to remain. How faithful were dumb creatures, more faithful, sometimes, than animals of a higher order. Grandpa did not stop to pursue this line of thought. Without a movement toward his crutches, he sprang out of bed and stumbled to the door. He opened it,

then slammed it together violently. Hall and kitchen were full of blinding smoke. Coughing and choking, he hurried to the open window, flung it up higher, and threw cracked yells of appeal out on the still night air. Fire, fire, help, help. He could not get out of the window, for he was on the ground floor, but he reflected that he would probably break a leg in so doing. And if he waited, Hank would be sure to come to him. Hank's room was right over his. Tilda Jane's was

nearer the front of the house. Hank, Hank, son, son, he cried. Wake up, the house is on fire. There was no response from Hank, and seizing the large bell from the side of his bed, Grandpa rang it out the window with all his might. Soon he could see the meliquans coming through the darkness, tumbling and hopping over each other, looking like white and striped rabbits in their bed attire. One of the boys ran to give alarm in the town, and father and mother meliquan

assisted Grandpa out the window. The dog first, he said, when they held out their hands to him. He saved my life. Wake, Hank, oh, wake, Hank, he called to the meliquan children, who forthwith began to execute a dance of an excited and hilarious character under their neighbor's window, and to bombard him with stones and any missiles they could lay their hands on. And perletta, Grandpa added, the girl sleeps like a log. Mrs. Meliquan ran to assail perletta's window,

vigorously with gravel and sticks, and soon her tousled head appeared. Tell her to run to the back of the woodhouse attic, called Grandpa, and come down the rough steps. She can't get through the kitchen. Perletta did as she was told, but Hank was in a quandary. Front hall full of smoke, also back, he bawled out. I'm going to jump on my bed. And forthwith he began to hurl mattress, bedclothes, and his summer and winter garments

out the window. When he thought he had made a heap sufficiently soft, he put a foot on the sill, gave a leap, and alighted without accident. The house was not high, and the risk in jumping was consequently small. Arrived on the ground, he flashed a comprehensive glance at his father, the pup, and perletta, and said, Every living thing is out, I guess. Except Sissy's pigeon, said Grandpa. That's so, replied Hank, the creature must be dazed by all

this confusion, and this smoke is puffing round its box now. With amazing rapidity for a fat man, he ran to the barn and returned with a ladder of medium size. Detached the pigeon box, carried it down, and placing it on one side threw some clothes over it. Otherwise the frightened creature might flutter out, he muttered. Now, friends, he shouted, Let's see if we can save any stuff that isn't alive. But no risks, mind. By this time, the dining room, kitchen, and

Grandpa's bedroom were burning swiftly, and Hank called out, No use trying to get in there. Perletta, you and Mr. Meliquon run to the back, and see if you can snake anything out of the woodhouse. Mrs. Meliquon and the children, come with me. I guess I'll rescue a few things from the front of the house. The night fortunately was not dark, and the flames were now beginning to illuminate the yard and garden. As the front door was locked on the inside, Hank smashed a window,

jumped in, and soon was passing out the hair-cloth furniture. Tilda Jane's sewing machine was here, also some books and other treasured possessions placed in the best room to keep them out of Handy Andy's way. Blisters, it's getting hot here, muttered Hank, who with perspiration pouring down his face was flinging things about. I guess I'll have to quit. These wooden houses blaze up like matchboxes, and with a leap he dodged a long tongue of flame coming in through the doorway

and landed on the grass outside. Here's the fire engine, shouted the Meliquon children, as he once more appeared among them. Much good it'll do, growled Hank. They can't save anything but the cellar now. A crowd of half-dressed men and boys were running beside the engine, and Hank soon had two or three score of willing helpers. There's nothing to be done, he said to the chief of the fire department,

but place some water on it if you want to. The place is doomed. The nearest hydrant is over there in front of the next house. The man saw that his assistants had already found the hydrant, and with a backward glance at them he said to Hank, There's no danger of the barn going, is there? No siree, replied Hank. I took good care to have it a ways off. Never did see the sense of having a house and a barn clapped close together. Thank fortune, there ain't a breath of wind tonight.

There goes the attic, old boxes and childhood's toys. Well, I for one ain't bound to rags and reminiscences. I'll build another house. There's mighty heap money goes up in flames every year in this country, said Mr. Meliquon, drawing near and speaking to Hank. Tis terrible. Yes, terrible, muttered Hank. It's such dead loss.

Got any insurance? asked his neighbour. Some, not much, not nearly enough to cover the loss. I never foresaw this. Well, I must skip to the barn. That mayor of mine will be fair crazy with all this row. And he hurried away. The little house was now one brilliant bonfire. The flames sprang high. Never before had it looked such a good size, and so picturesque. The dancing light cast strange shadows over the yard and stable and the faces of the onlookers.

It was not a pleasing spectacle, but it was curiously fascinating. Upon my soul, snickered one of the firemen, who was standing with a hose in his hand, directing a stream of water in the middle of the pit of flame. Look over yonder. Funny spectators, those. His companion stared in the direction of the clump of shrubbery behind the house. There, side by side, quietly contemplating the fire, were two large white pigs.

They neither advanced nor retreated, but presently, when Perletta spied them and walked up to caress them, they impatiently twitched their short tails, grunted, and tossed up their heads, then walked back into the darkness. I've heard tell they were great folks for animals in this house, said the first man, and when I see two pigs running to a fire like two Christians, I believes it. They say it was a dog. Give the alarm, responded the other.

That's nothing new. Dogs has saved lots of property and lives, and cats too, for that matter. Our smell ain't in it with theirs, and something seems to tell them what's coming. Now, how did this house catch on fire, Grandpa was saying to Hank, who had walked out of the stable with his arm round Milkweed's neck? I found her shivering and scared to death, Hank remarked, and I thought that with hosses, like humans, suspense was worse than knowledge, so I brought

her out. See, she ain't so bad now, and he patted her quivering neck. Horses hate fire, said his father. Well, Dad, about the starting of it, Hank continued, I'm up a tree. The dining room fire was most dead out when I went to bed. The kitchen stove was going, for Perletta had been baking late, but all the covers was on. We ain't had any fire in the whole stove since the warm spring weather began. It beats me. Were there any matches lying around, asked Grandpa.

We never used no sulfurs, interposed Perletta eagerly as she came closer to them. There was all parlor matches. Perhaps bad flu, suggested Mrs. Meliquan. I guess that must have been it, said Hank dejectedly. The chimneys weren't well built. When Father put up this house, he was cheated by a fellow that he thought wouldn't cheat. Most nights I'd go round upstairs to feel the woodwork, but I didn't think of it last night.

How we get fooled. You suffer and the other fellow gets the money. In this poor world, said Mrs. Meliquan softly, in another, twill be made up. Yes, but it's a powerful long time to wait, said Hank. If I had the arranging of things, I'd give all my object lessons in this life. According to me, sinners have all the good times here, and saints sweat. The French woman smiled, a benignant angelic smile. Then she said sweetly,

and now let us think of your poor father. This is shocking for him. Suppose he comes and enters into one of our nice warm beds. Two children will gladly turn out for him. Mr. Hank, did you know twice the deer dog that woke your father? No, said Hank sharply. Was it? Yes, and Mrs. Meliquan told him that Grandpa had related his wildcat dream to her. Hank uttered another astonished exclamation. Then said, I won't speak to him about it tonight. He's pretty well worked up.

I'm a hundred times obliged to you for taking him in. Dad, will you go home with our kind neighbor? Grandpa turned with a start from his contemplation of the fire. Where are your crutches? asked Hank. He threw them out on the grass, said Mrs. Meliquan. When Grandpa did not reply, boys, look for them. Grandpa, without waiting for the crutches to be found, started off with a firm step toward Mrs. Meliquan's house. Look at that, cried Hank. I've

heard of such things before. Rheumatism can be shocked out of the blood by some accident, like a railway collision or an earthquake or a fire, but I should think Dad would be too old for it. It is in his old age that your father makes change, said Mrs. Meliquan softly. That's true, replied Hank, and it shows that while there's life there's hope. Now I must go thank the men for coming from town with the engine. I see they're getting ready to go home.

I will follow your father, said Mrs. Meliquan, taking the crutches from one of her boys. You and Perletta will come when you like. You can take her now, said Hank over his shoulder. I'm going to stay right here tonight. Then come to breakfast, said his kind neighbor, and going up to the staring gaping Perletta, who had scarcely opened her mouth since the fire began, she led her away with her. In an hour the place was deserted by all human beings, save Hank.

He sat on the little raised platform in the yard where he groomed milkweed and where Tilda Jane and Perletta brushed clothes and shook rugs. Grimy and disheveled, he surveyed the smoking ruins of his home. A good chance to be cast down, he soliloquized. I'm not money enough to build a new home, and I don't know anyone that would lend it to me, except at a sky rate of interest. But I ain't going to worry. Show what's a burnt house to what some men have to go through.

Here, you milkweed, stop puffing and blowing over my shoulder. That fire ain't going to hurt you now. Come on to your stall. Pigs, go back to your lair. And he addressed the two curious animals who had again emerged from the shades of the garden, after the crowd went away and were standing staring at him. Upon my words, if you treat animals half-way decent, they want to hang on to your coat-tails all the time. He continued, Well, I'm in need of comfort

from someone or something. There was a lot here. I believe most folks enjoy a fire, if it ain't their own house that's burning. I usually like running to a fire myself, but somehow or other I didn't seem to enjoy this one. What was it I was reading to Dad the other night? Something about the most of us getting a lot of consolation out of the troubles of our friends. Pigs, didn't I tell you to go to bed? You ain't going to impose on me, if I am a half-ruined man.

Stop nosing my best clothes. You'd like to lie on that thirty-dollar overcoat, would you? I guess I've saved most of my things. A pity I couldn't get into Sissy's room. Ain't I glad she wasn't here. Good Sissy. Now I'll carry all this stuff in the barn and then lie down on the hay for a spell. The dawn's just breaking and I'm a grown man, not a fool of a boy. I must quit repining.