Chapter 29 My own dear home - 2

A dapper little white mare let herself out of her stall, went up to a hook where an overcoat was hanging, and carried it out to the yard, holding it high so it would not drag on the snow.
As she stood dangling it from her mouth, Thomas jumped up and said rebukingly, “Why don’t you help her put it on me, Fernbrook?”
To the old gentleman’s surprise—Mr. Bonstone, Gringo and I had, of course, seen these performances many times before—the two sagacious animals held the coat by the back of the neck, while Thomas slipped his arms in it.
“Major Golderay,” called Thomas, “I want you.”
A roan horse—a perfect beauty—came stepping daintily out.
“Also Duchess of Normandy,” said Thomas, “Lady Jane Grey, and Poor Polly.”
The animals all came out, and formed a line-up before him.
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“Lady Jane,” said Thomas, “where is your friend Joe?”
Lady Jane whinnied several times, and shook her head in the direction of the barn.
“I know he’s bedding the cows,” said Thomas, “but you go tell him I want him.”
Lady Jane galloped away, and presently returned with her teeth in the shoulder of the woolen sweater worn by the grinning Joe, who bobbed his head at his employer and guest.
The old gentleman began to speak. “This is almost equal to the thinking horses of Elberfeld.”
“Can you state to me,” asked Mr. Bonstone, “any reason why an American horse should not have as much brains as a German horse?”
“None whatever,” said the old gentleman. “Horses, like men, are created equal. Tell me, stableman, what is your system?”
“Haven’t any, sir,” said Thomas. “I treat ’em as if they had horse sense, and I find they’ve got it.”
“Cultivation, cultivation,” said the old gentleman several times, as he nodded his head. Then he asked, “Can they count?”
“Duchess of Normandy,” said Thomas, “when is Dicky Bill coming from town?”
“Dicky Bill is one of the stable boys,” explained Mr. Bonstone.
The Duchess was scratching ten times in the snow with her hoof.
“Hille ho, hille ho, hille ho,” sounded a sudden ringing voice.
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We all turned, and there was Dicky Bill tearing up the asphalt path from the electric car line.
He didn’t see us, and he rushed into the stable yard, and threw his arm round the glossy neck of the Duchess—“Hello! old girl.”
“Just look at that boy’s colour,” whispered Gringo, “and six months ago, he was a washed-out rag.”
Dicky Bill was pulling at his cap in confusion. He had just discovered Mr. Bonstone.
“You’ve made the Duchess tell a lie,” said Thomas.
“I told her I was coming back at ten,” said Dicky Bill, “but I changed my mind. There’s nothin’ doin’ in town.”
Mr. Bonstone put up his hand to his face, to conceal a smile. His plan was to make country life so interesting, that town life seemed dull.
The old gentleman was speaking to Thomas. “You gave that mare some sign, didn’t you?”
“If I did, I didn’t know it,” said Thomas. “They may get something I don’t get myself, for they watch me closely. If I walk down by those stalls, and say to myself, ‘That black mare is off her feed, I’ll give her an extra ration of oats,’ she’ll whinny, and look toward the oat bin.”
“My wife says,” remarked Mr. Bonstone, “that when she gives a special feed of hemp to her hens, in order to catch one, they’ll all eat out of her hand but the one she has her mind on.”
“Wonderful,” said the old gentleman, “l(fā)ooks as if we were the brutes, and the animals the reasoning beings—I’ll have to catch my train—Thank you, my man.[358] I’m going to send you a book about the Elberfeld horses.”
Gringo and I travelled slowly along after Mr. Bonstone and his friends on their way to the house, but stopped on the way to speak to Czarina, Yeggie, Weary Winnie and the Frenchmen who had had their early dinner, and were coming up to the stables for the night.
As we were talking, the old gentleman and Mr. Bonstone retraced their steps. They wanted to ask something further about the horses from Thomas.
The gentleman paused to look at us. “What a jolly lot of dogs,” he said—“they’re talking just as we are. I wonder what they’re saying. Just look at those intelligent faces. They understand us, but we can’t understand them.”
We dogs all gave each other knowing glances.
“’Pon my word,” growled Gringo, “it seems as if more human beings were beginning to find out that we’re something more than lumps of flesh.”
“Gringo,” I said, “my leg is beginning to ache. I must get home, but first I want to look in on your family.”
“Good night, dogs,” we said to the stable bunch, and we went on the way to the Bonstones’ big living-room, where everybody gathered at this time of day.
Old Mrs. Resterton sat in a corner by the fireplace, knitting and talking to an old lady friend who had her chair close beside hers. A nurse-maid was bringing in Cyria and the twins from a frolic on the lawn, and Master Carty, who had just arrived from town[359] straight as a major, was helping his young nephew and nieces to take off their wraps.
Mrs. Bonstone had just got out of her coupé at the door. She had been calling on a neighbour, and pretty soon she came in, smiling and holding out her hands to the blaze. She greeted all her family in a loving way, and did not forget to congratulate me on my restoration to health.
“They’re all happy,” I said to Gringo, “now I must skip home.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Gringo. “We dogs have all sworn that you’re to go nowhere without an escort.”
This amused me, and I tried to toss up my head and show off a bit, as we ran out into the hall and down the avenue. I could not, and had to go soberly.
“Will you come in, Gringo?” I said when I got home.
“Certainty,” he said. “I’ll stay to dinner with you.”
I wasn’t taken aback. My kind mistress never objects when I bring home a dog friend. Some women are very fussy about entertaining.
We went into the library, where mistress was alone, looking over the mail that lay on the big table. She had been out walking, and still had on her warm coat and cloth hat. She never wore furs now.
“Good dogs,” she said absently, “come close to the fire,” and she went on reading a letter.
Gringo and I lay down on my hearth-stone, and presently in came master from town.
He kissed his wife—“How rosy you look,” he said.
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She let the letter slip to the table.
“Do I?” she said slowly.
“Yes—this life in the country is a thousand times better for you than the city.”
“Oh, Rudolph,” she said, “I met Stanna just now in her coupé. Really, that woman is resplendent. She looked like a tropical flower in a glass box. I wish I were half as handsome.”
“Half as handsome,” repeated master in a kind of innocent, wondering way. “Do you really think you are not as good-looking as Stanna?”
“I don’t think it,” said mistress almost impatiently, “I know it.”
Master stared at her in amazement.
Mistress burst out laughing. “I really believe, you dear, foolish man, that you think I eclipse Stanna.”
“I don’t think it, I know it,” he said decidedly.
“The boys in the street don’t stare after me as they do after Stanna,” she said.
“That rejoices me,” he said gravely. “I shouldn’t care to have them staring at you.”
Mistress broke into a delighted peal of laughter, and I think was about to embrace him, but she wheeled round and held out her arms to young George who was entering the room, followed by Ellen and Beanie.
Beanie, in spite of a warm dog sweater he had on, was shivering with cold and held his breast-bone so close to the fire, that Gringo said gravely, “I smell you scorching, Beans.”
He moved back a bit, and I said, “How you do feel the cold.”
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“Too much F. F. V.,” said Gringo soberly.
“It does seem cold up here,” said Beanie, “after that southern winter air.”
“Have you been to see Mrs. Waverlee?” asked Gringo.
“Yes, she’s fine,” said Beanie enthusiastically, “and I love Patsie. Oh! dogs, we’re going to stay here. I’m crazy with pleasure. I didn’t want to go back to New York.”
We both congratulated him, then Ellen called him to go upstairs, to have his sweater off.
Master and mistress went back to the topic of the looks of ladies and gentlemen.
“Claudia,” master was saying, “if you were to tell me that I wasn’t as handsome as Norman, I would understand you.”
Mistress turned her back on him, and began to gather up her mail from the table.
“No one would look at me twice, if Norman were in the room,” said master. “He’s what I call a really handsome man.”
“Look at Mrs. Granton’s shoulders shaking,” muttered Gringo. “She thinks that’s a joke on my boss.”
Mistress turned round—her face perfectly convulsed with amusement. “Rudolph,” she said, “you old goose.”
“Gander,” corrected master. “Do the animal kingdom justice.”
“Gander then,” said mistress. “Norman Bonstone can’t be compared with you. You are the handsomest man I ever saw.”
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Master gave her a quizzical smile. “It looks as if we were both satisfied, doesn’t it?” he said.
“I am a very happy woman,” she said with emphasis. “I used not to be. I am now.”
“Isn’t much more to be added to that,” said Gringo, as the two went arm in arm from the room. “It’s fine to have all the bosses happy. Makes things easier for us dogs—but who comes here?”
“Our unhappy ghost,” I said as Amarilla sneaked into the room.
“How de do, dogsie,” said Gringo amiably. “Do you think I am handsome?”
Amarilla hesitated, and looked at me in her timid way.
“Weary Winnie and Reddy think I’m a beauty,” said Gringo encouragingly, and with a hoarse laugh.
“I don’t think you’re exactly pretty,” began Amarilla shyly, then she stopped.
Gringo rolled over and over on the hearth-rug, in his amusement. “Oh! Amarilla! Oh!” he said chokingly.
“Feel any happier to-day, girlie?” I asked as she stretched herself out on the fender stool.
“Yes,” she said cheerfully, “missie weighed me to-day and I’m back to normal. Now you’re home, I’ve nothing to fret about.”
“Human beings happy, dogs happy,” said Gringo, “l(fā)ooks as if there was a green old age getting ripe for us. Boy, I wish every animal in the world had as good homes as we have.”
 “Gringo,” I said enthusiastically, “that goes to my heart. Happiness for everybody, say I.”
“Write it down,” said the good old dog. “You know dog hearts pretty well. Say your say to the human beings. Maybe you’ll make it easier for some of the unhappy dogs.”
I took his remark to heart. I had already written part of the story of my life, and for the other dogs’ sake, I, Boy of Pleasant River, give the rest of this little sketch to the world.