Dodie Smith - The 101 Dalmatians

“The miracle, the miracle!” gasped Pongo to Missis.

“Quickly, pups! Jump into the nice miracle,” said Missis, who now thought “miracle” was another name for a removal van.

A swarm of pups surged up the tailboard. Up went the Cadpig’s cart, pulled from the front and pushed from behind. Then more and more pups jumped or scrambled up until the entire army was in.

“Golly, there are a lot of you,” said the Staffordshire, who had flattened himself against the side of the van. “Lucky the van was empty. Who’s after you, mates? Old Nick?”

“Some relation of his, I think,” said Pongo. The strident horn sounded again, and now two strong headlights could be seen in the distance. “And she’s in that car.”

“Then I’d better put the light off,” said the Staffordshire, neatly working the switch with his teeth. “That’s better.”

Pongo’s heart seemed to miss a beat. Suddenly he knew that letting the pups get into the van had been a terrible mistake.

“But the car’s headlights will shine in,” he gasped. “Our enemy will see the pups.”

“Not black pups in a black van,” said the Staffordshire. “Not if they close their eyes.”

Oh, excellent suggestion! Quickly Pongo gave the command.

“Pups, close your eyes—or they will reflect the car’s headlights and shine like jewels in the darkness. Close them and do not open them, however frightened you are, until I give the word. Remember, your lives may depend on your obedience now. Close your eyes and keep them closed!”

Instantly all the puppies closed their eyes tight. And now the car’s headlights were less than a quarter of a mile away.

“Close your eyes, Missis,” said Pongo.

“And don’t forget to close your own, mate,” said the Staffordshire.

Now the car’s powerful engine could be heard. The strident horn blared again and again, as it telling the van to get out of the way. Louder and louder grew the noise from the engine. The glare from the headlights was now so intense that Pongo was conscious of it through his tightly shut eyelids. Would the pups obey orders? Or would terror make them look towards the oncoming car? Pongo himself had a wild desire to do so and a wild fear that the car was going to crash into the van. The noise of horn and engine grew deafening; the glare seemed blinding, even to closed eyes. Then, with a roar, the great striped car was on them—and past them, roaring on and on into the night!

“You may open your eyes now, my brave, obedient pups,” cried Pongo. And indeed they deserved praise, for not one eye had been opened.

“That was quite a car, mate,” said the Staffordshire to Pongo. “You must have quite an enemy. Who are you, anyway? The local pack of soot-hounds?” Then he suddenly stared very hard at Pongo’s nose. “Well, swelp me if it isn’t soot! And it doesn’t fool me. You’re the Missing Dalmatians. Want a lift back to London?”

A lift? A lift all the way in this wonderful van! Pongo and Missis could hardly believe it. Swiftly the pups settled to sleep on the rugs and blankets used for wrapping furniture.

“But why are there so many pups?” said the Staffordshire. “The newspapers don’t know the half of it, nor the quarter. They think there are only fifteen missing.”

Pongo started to explain, but the Staffordshire said they would talk during the drive to London. “My pets will be out of that house there any minute. Fancy us doing a removal on a Sunday— and Christmas Eve. But the van broke down yesterday, and we had to finish the job.”

“How many days will the journey to London take?” asked Missis.

“Days?” said the Staffordshire. “It won’t take much more than a couple of hours, if I know my pets. They want to get home to finish decorating their kids’ Christmas trees. Sssh, now! Pipe down, both of you.”

A large man in a rough apron was coming out of a nearby house. Missis thought, “As soon as one danger is past, another threatens.” Would they all be turned out of the miracle?

The Staffordshire, wagging his tail enthusiastically, hurled himself at the man’s chest, nearly knocking him down.

“Look out, Bill!” said the man, over his shoulder.

“The Canine Cannon Ball’s feeling frisky.”

Bill was an even larger man, but even he was shaken by the Staffordshire’s loving welcome.

“Get down, you Self-launched Bomb,” he shouted with great affection.

The two men and the Staffordshire came back to the van, and the Staffordshire jumped inside. The sooty Dalmatians, huddled together, were invisible in the darkness.

“Want to ride inside, do you?” said Bill. “Well, it is cold.” He put the tailboard up and shouted, “Next stop, St. John’s Wood.” A moment later the van started.

St. John’s Wood! Surely, that was where the Splendid Vet lived—quite close to Regent’s Park! What wonderful, wonderful luck, thought Pongo. Just then he heard a clock strike. It was still only eight o’clock.

“Missis!” he cried. “We shall get home tonight! We shall be home for Christmas!”

“Yes, Pongo,” said Missis gaily. But she did not feel as gay as she sounded. For Missis, who had been so brave, so confident up to the moment they had found the miracle, had suddenly been smitten by a great fear. Suppose the Dearlys did not recognize them now they were black dogs? Suppose the dear, dear Dearlys turned them away?

She kept her fears to herself. Why should she frighten Pongo with them? How fast the miracle was travelling! She thought of the days it had taken her and Pongo to reach Suffolk on foot. Why, it seemed like weeks since they had left London! Yet it was only—how long? Could it be only four days? They’d slept one day in the stable at the inn, one day at the dear Spaniel’s, one day in the Folly, part of a night in the barn after the escape from Hell Hall, then a day at the bakery. So much had happened in so short a time. And now, would it be all right when they got home? Would it? Would it?

Meanwhile, Pongo had his own worries. He had been telling the Staffordshire all about Cruella and had remembered what she had said that night at Hell Hall—how she intended to wait until people had forgotten about the stolen puppies, and then start her Dalmatian fur farm again. Surely he and Missis would get this lot of puppies safely home (it had never occurred to him that the Dearlys might not let them in), but what of the future? How could he make sure that other puppies did not end up as fur coats later on? He asked for advice.

“Why not kill this Cruella?” said the Staffordshire. “And I’ll help you. Let’s make a date for it now.”

Pongo shook his head. He had come to believe that Cruella was not an ordinary human but some kind of devil. If so, could one kill her? In any case, he didn’t want his pups to have a killer-dog for a father. He would have sprung at Cruella if she had attacked any pup, but he didn’t fancy cold-blooded murder. He told the Staffordshire so.

“Your blood would soon warm up, once you started the job,” said the Staffordshire. “Well, let me know if you change your mind. And now you take a nap, mate. You’ve still got quite a job ahead of you.”

The Staffordshire, like Missis, wondered if the Dearlys would recognize these black Dalmatians—and if even the kindest pets would take in so many pups. But he said nothing of this to Pongo.

Missis, Iulled by the movement of the van, had fallen asleep. Soon Pongo slept too. But their dreams were haunted by their separate anxieties.

On and on through the dark went the mile-eating miracle.