_ It was a couple of weeks, or thereabouts, after this episode that
Euphemia came down to the gate to meet me on my return from the
city. I noticed a very peculiar expression on her face. She
looked both thoughtful and pleased. Almost the first words she
said to me were these:
"A tramp came here to-day."
"I am sorry to hear that," I exclaimed. "That's the worst news I
have had yet. I did hope that we were far enough from the line of
travel to escape these scourges. How did you get rid of him? Was
he impertinent?"
"You must not feel that way about all tramps," said she.
"Sometimes they are deserving of our charity, and ought to be
helped. There is a great difference in them."
"That may be," I said; "but what of this one? When was he here,
and when did he go?"
"He did not go at all. He is here now."
"Here now!" I cried. "Where is he?"
"Do not call out so loud," said Euphemia, putting her hand on my
arm. "You will waken him. He is asleep."
"Asleep!" said I. "A tramp? Here?"
"Yes. Stop, let me tell you about him. He told me his story, and
it is a sad one. He is a middle-aged man--fifty perhaps--and has
been rich. He was once a broker in Wall street, but lost money by
the failure of various railroads--the Camden and Amboy, for one."
"That hasn't failed," I interrupted.
"Well then it was the Northern Pacific, or some other one of them--
at any rate I know it was either a railroad or a bank,--and he soon
became very poor. He has a son in Cincinnati, who is a successful
merchant, and lives in a fine house, with horses and carriages, and
all that; and this poor man has written to his son, but has never
had any answer. So now he is going to walk to Cincinnati to see
him. He knows he will not be turned away if he can once meet his
son, face to face. He was very tired when he stopped here,--and he
has ever and ever so far to walk yet, you know,--and so after I had
given him something to eat, I let him lie down in the outer
kitchen, on that roll of rag-carpet that is there. I spread it out
for him. It is a hard bed for one who has known comfort, but he
seems to sleep soundly."
"Let me see him," said I, and I walked back to the outer kitchen.
There lay the unsuccessful broker fast asleep. His face, which was
turned toward me as I entered, showed that it had been many days
since he had been shaved, and his hair had apparently been uncombed
for about the same length of time. His clothes were very old, and
a good deal torn, and he wore one boot and one shoe.
"Whew!" said I. "Have you been giving him whisky?"
"No," whispered Euphemia, "of course not. I noticed that smell,
and he said he had been cleaning his clothes with alcohol."
"They needed it, I'm sure," I remarked as I turned away. "And
now," said I, "where's the girl?"
"This is her afternoon out. What is the matter? You look
frightened."
"Oh, I'm not frightened, but I find I must go down to the station
again. Just run up and put on your bonnet. It will be a nice
little walk for you."
I had been rapidly revolving the matter in my mind. What was I to
do with this wretch who was now asleep in my outer kitchen? If I
woke him up and drove him off,--and I might have difficulty in
doing it,--there was every reason to believe that he would not go
far, but return at night and commit some revengeful act. I never
saw a more sinister-looking fellow. And he was certainly drunk.
He must not be allowed to wander about our neighborhood. I would
go for the constable and have him arrested.
So I locked the door from the kitchen into the house and then the
outside door of the kitchen, and when my wife came down we hurried
off. On the way I told her what I intended to do, and what I
thought of our guest. She answered scarcely a word, and I hoped
that she was frightened. I think she was.
The constable, who was also coroner of our township, had gone to a
creek, three miles away, to hold an inquest, and there was nobody
to arrest the man. The nearest police-station was at Hackingford,
six miles away, on the railroad. I held a consultation with the
station-master, and the gentleman who kept the grocery-store
opposite.
They could think of nothing to be done except to shoot the man, and
to that I objected.
"However," said I, "he can't stay there;" and a happy thought just
then striking me, I called to the boy who drove the village
express-wagon, and engaged him for a job. The wagon was standing
at the station, and to save time, I got in and rode to my house.
Euphemia went over to call on the groceryman's wife until I
returned.
I had determined that the man should be taken away, although, until
I was riding home, I had not made up my mind where to have him
taken. But on the road I settled this matter.
On reaching the house, we drove into the yard as close to the
kitchen as we could go. Then I unlocked the door, and the boy--who
was a big, strapping fellow--entered with me. We found the ex-
broker still wrapped in the soundest slumber. Leaving the boy to
watch him, I went upstairs and got a baggage-tag which I directed
to the chief of police at the police station in Hackingford. I
returned to the kitchen and fastened this tag, conspicuously, on
the lappel of the sleeper's coat. Then, with a clothes-line, I
tied him up carefully, hand and foot. To all this he offered not
the slightest opposition. When he was suitably packed, with due
regard to the probable tenderness of wrist and ankle in one brought
up in luxury, the boy and I carried him to the wagon.
He was a heavy load, and we may have bumped him a little, but his
sleep was not disturbed. Then we drove him to the express office.
This was at the railroad station, and the station-master was also
express agent. At first he was not inclined to receive my parcel,
but when I assured him that all sorts of live things were sent by
express, and that I could see no reason for making an exception in
this case, he added my arguments to his own disposition, as a
house-holder, to see the goods forwarded to their destination, and
so gave me a receipt, and pasted a label on the ex-broker's
shoulder. I set no value on the package, which I prepaid.
"Now then," said the station-master, "he'll go all right, if the
express agent on the train will take him."
This matter was soon settled, for, in a few minutes, the train
stopped at the station. My package was wheeled to the express car,
and two porters, who entered heartily into the spirit of the thing,
hoisted it into the car. The train-agent, who just then noticed
the character of the goods, began to declare that he would not have
the fellow in his car; but my friend the station-master shouted out
that everything was all right,--the man was properly packed,
invoiced and paid for, and the train, which was behind time, moved
away before the irate agent could take measures to get rid of his
unwelcome freight.
"Now," said I, "there'll be a drunken man at the police-station in
Hackingford in about half-an-hour. His offense will be as evident
there as here, and they can do what they please with him. I shall
telegraph, to explain the matter and prepare them for his arrival."
When I had done this Euphemia and I went home. The tramp had cost
me some money, but I was well satisfied with my evening's work, and
felt that the township owed me, at least, a vote of thanks.
But I firmly made up my mind that Euphemia should never again be
left unprotected. I would not even trust to a servant who would
agree to have no afternoons out. I would get a dog.
The next day I advertised for a fierce watchdog, and in the course
of a week I got one. Before I procured him I examined into the
merits, and price, of about one hundred dogs. My dog was named
Pete, but I determined to make a change in that respect. He was a
very tall, bony, powerful beast, of a dull black color, and with a
lower jaw that would crack the hind-leg of an ox, so I was
informed. He was of a varied breed, and the good Irishman of whom
I bought him said he had fine blood in him, and attempted to refer
him back to the different classes of dogs from which he had been
derived. But after I had had him awhile, I made an analysis based
on his appearance and character, and concluded that he was mainly
blood-hound, shaded with wolf-dog and mastiff, and picked out with
touches of bull-dog.
The man brought him home for me, and chained him up in an unused
wood-shed, for I had no doghouse as yet.
"Now thin," said he, "all you've got to do is to keep 'im chained
up there for three or four days till he gets used to ye. An' I'll
tell ye the best way to make a dog like ye. Jist give him a good
lickin'. Then he'll know yer his master, and he'll like ye iver
aftherward. There's plenty of people that don't know that. And,
by the way, sir, that chain's none too strong for 'im. I got it
when he wasn't mor'n half grown. Ye'd bether git him a new one."
When the man had gone, I stood and looked at the dog, and could not
help hoping that he would learn to like me without the intervention
of a thrashing. Such harsh methods were not always necessary, I
felt sure.
After our evening meal--a combination of dinner and supper, of
which Euphemia used to say that she did not know whether to call it
dinper or supner--we went out together to look at our new guardian.
Euphemia was charmed with him.
"How massive!" she exclaimed. "What splendid limbs! And look at
that immense head! I know I shall never be afraid now. I feel
that that is a dog I can rely upon. Make him stand up, please, so
I can see how tall he is."
"I think it would be better not to disturb him," I answered, "he
may be tired. He will get up of his own accord very soon. And
indeed I hope that he will not get up until I go to the store and
get him a new chain."
As I said this I made a step forward to look at his chain, and at
that instant a low growl, like the first rumblings of an
earthquake, ran through the dog.
I stepped back again and walked over to the village for the chain.
The dog-chains shown me at the store all seemed too short and too
weak, and I concluded to buy two chains such as used for hitching
horses and to join them so as to make a long as well as a strong
one of them. I wanted him to be able to come out of the wood-shed
when it should be necessary to show himself.
On my way home with my purchase the thought suddenly struck me, How
will you put that chain on your dog? The memory of the rumbling
growl was still vivid.
I never put the chain on him. As I approached him with it in my
hand, he rose to his feet, his eyes sparkled, his black lips drew
back from his mighty teeth, he gave one savage bark and sprang at
me.
His chain held and I went into the house. That night he broke
loose and went home to his master, who lived fully ten miles away.
When I found in the morning that he was gone I was in doubt whether
it would be better to go and look for him or not. But I concluded
to keep up a brave heart, and found him, as I expected, at the
place where I had bought him. The Irishman took him to my house
again and I had to pay for the man's loss of time as well as for
his fare on the railroad. But the dog's old master chained him up
with the new chain and I felt repaid for my outlay.
Every morning and night I fed that dog, and I spoke as kindly and
gently to him as I knew how. But he seemed to cherish a distaste
for me, and always greeted me with a growl. He was an awful dog.
About a week after the arrival of this animal, I was astonished and
frightened on nearing the house to hear a scream from my wife. I
rushed into the yard and was greeted with a succession of screams
from two voices, that seemed to come from the vicinity of the wood-
shed. Hurrying thither, I perceived Euphemia standing on the roof
of the shed in perilous proximity to the edge, while near the ridge
of the roof sat our hired girl with her handkerchief over her head.
"Hurry, hurry!" cried Euphemia. "Climb up here! The dog is loose!
Be quick! Be quick! Oh! he's coming, he's coming!"
I asked for no explanation. There was a rail-fence by the side of
the shed and I sprang on this, and was on the roof just as the dog
came bounding and barking from the barn.
Instantly Euphemia had me in her arms, and we came very near going
off the roof together.
"I never feared to have you come home before," she sobbed. "I
thought he would tear you limb from limb."
"But how did all this happen?" said I.
"Och! I kin hardly remember," said the girl from under her
handkerchief.
"Well, I didn't ask you," I said, somewhat too sharply.
"Oh, I'll tell you," said Euphemia. "There was a man at the gate
and he looked suspicious and didn't try to come in, and Mary was at
the barn looking for an egg, and I thought this was a good time to
see whether the dog was a good watch-dog or not, so I went and
unchained him--"
"Did you unchain that dog?" I cried.
"Yes, and the minute he was loose he made a rush at the gate, but
the man was gone before he got there, and as he ran down the road I
saw that he was Mr. Henderson's man, who was coming here on an
errand, I expect, and then I went down to the barn to get Mary to
come and help me chain up the dog, and when she came out he began
to chase me and then her; and we were so frightened that we climbed
up here, and I don't know, I'm sure, how I ever got up that fence;
and do you think he can climb up here?"
"Oh no! my dear," I said.
"An' he's just the beast to go afther a stip-ladder," said the
girl, in muffled tones.
"And what are we to do?" asked Euphemia. "We can't eat and sleep
up here. Don't you think that if we were all to shout out
together, we could make some neighbor hear?"
"Oh yes!" I said, "there is no doubt of it. But then, if a
neighbor came, the dog would fall on him--"
"And tear him limb from limb," interrupted Euphemia.
"Yes, and besides, my dear, I should hate to have any of the
neighbors come and find us all up here. It would look so utterly
absurd. Let me try and think of some other plan."
"Well, please be as quick as you can. It's dreadful to be--who's
that?"
I looked up and saw a female figure just entering the yard.
"Oh, what shall we do" exclaimed Euphemia. "The dog will get her.
Call to her!"
"No, no," said I, "don't make a noise. It will only bring the dog.
He seems to have gone to the barn, or somewhere. Keep perfectly
quiet, and she may go up on the porch, and as the front door is not
locked, she may rush into the house, if she sees him coming."
"I do hope she will do that," said Euphemia, anxiously.
"And yet," said I, "it's not pleasant to have strangers going into
the house when there's no one there."
"But it's better than seeing a stranger torn to pieces before your
eyes," said Euphemia.
"Yes," I replied, "it is. Don't you think we might get down now?
The dog isn't here."
"No, no!" cried Euphemia. "There he is now, coming this way. And
look at that woman! She is coming right to this shed."
Sure enough, our visitor had passed by the front door, and was
walking toward us. Evidently she had heard our voices.
"Don't come here!" cried Euphemia. "You'll be killed! Run! run!
The dog is coming! Why, mercy on us! It's Pomona!" _