Evelyn Raymond - Divided Skates

“Johns, ma’am. Father’s John Johns, mother’s Mary. I’m Molly, then come the three J’s, and Sarah Jane – Never mind, though. You’d not be apt to remember or care. Shall I sit by Towsley? I think he’d feel more comfortable if I did.”

“Certainly, if you like. Please help yourself, since Mary has gone on my errand. No, I thank you. I do not care for any.”

Miss Armacost caught the astonishment in Towsley’s eyes as she thus indifferently declined ice-cream, and was amused by it. A whimsical impulse seized her to furnish the waif with all of the dainty which he could possibly consume, and satisfy his craving for one time, at least. In all her life she had never seen any person eat the cold stuff as he did. His mouth opened like a trap, a spoonful went into it, the mouth closed, reopened, another spoonful – no pause, no effort of swallowing, no lingering enjoyment of a delicious dish. She remarked:

“You like ice-cream, Towsley, I perceive.”

“Um’m.”

“Can’t you take time to answer properly?”

“Ye-e-m, but it’s – melt – ing,” jerked out the boy between dips. Yet the greediness was dying out of his face and a serene content taking its place. All unconsciously to their owner the boy’s feet began to swing themselves back and forth, occasionally hitting the base of the stool upon which he sat.

Miss Armacost did not know that this was a habit of all young children and a sign of material enjoyment; but she was just beginning to worry about her stool and the damage he would do it, when her attention was diverted to Sir Christopher.

He had licked feebly, and half disdainfully, at his own saucer of cream, then curled himself round upon the towel beside it. But he could not lie still. Up and down, around and about, he turned and twisted, and all the time emitting groans that clearly bespoke distress of some sort, and that his mistress fancied were almost human in tone.

“Why, my blessed doggie! What ails him, the dear? Is he sick? Does he ache all over? Tell Miss Lucy, Chrissy, tell what is wrong with her pet!”

“Why!” cried Molly, aghast. “Why! you talk to him just as mother does to Ivanora or Idelia! Does he understand you? Can he tell?”

“Yes. He understands. But there’s something seriously wrong with him. He was never so bad as this. Ring for one of the girls, child. Ring at once.”

Molly knew nothing about bells. In her own little home of six rooms there was no bell at all except one at the front door, and she looked around in some perplexity, wishing to obey but not knowing how.

“Stupid!” cried Miss Lucy, springing toward the wall and touching the button which sent an electric signal to the basement of the house; then, as Mary returned from her errand to Side Street, demanding anxiously:

“What have you been giving Sir Christopher?”

“Why, nothing, ma’am, but his regular food.”

“Did he take his oatmeal this morning as he should?”

“No, ma’am. He never takes it if he can help. He hates it; and when I tried to force him to-day, he was that sharp and snappish I was afraid. There’s a deal of hydrophobia about, I’m hearing.”

“Hydrophobia? Nonsense. What else has he had?”

“I really couldn’t say, ma’am.”

“Somebody must say. Call the cook.”

When Chloe’s black face showed in the parting of the door curtains Miss Lucy hurled her excited inquiries into the placid countenance.

“Chloe, what have you been giving Sir Christopher? against my orders, for nobody except myself and Mary is ever to feed him. What is it? Don’t be so slow. It is important I should know. I may be able to save his life if he is in danger. What? Eh?”

“Well, ma’am,” drawled the negress, in her leisurely way which nothing could alter, “I dunno as I’ve guv him anything to speak of. Nothing wuth mentioning, leastways. Just a little of that nice lobster salad was left from luncheon; and a cup of custard; being more ’an would go in the floating island. Then a mere taste of the ice-cream, out the freezer was meant for the kitchen, an’ he seemed to relish it right well. He licked a right smart of the custard, and as for the lobster, you know yourself, Miss Lucy, he’s always plumb crazy for shell-fish. Not like most dogs, Chrissy isn’t, won’t touch such victuals. He just dotes on anything comes out the salt water, and I – ”

Miss Armacost had drawn her slight figure to its utmost height and stood regarding her servant with eyes that fairly blazed her indignation.

“Lobster salad and boiled custard! Not to include the ice-cream, even. A deadly combination; and you may have the satisfaction, if you enjoy it, of knowing that your thoughtless indulgence of his appetite will probably cost him his life. You may go. Send Jefferson for the dog doctor over on Penn Street. And, Mary, you carry him up to my room. Lift him gently, poor fellow! I’m afraid we’ll lose him this time.”

There was unaffected grief in the little lady’s tone, but Chloe was heard to mutter, composedly, as she departed kitchenward:

“A good riddance, I say. Time he died if his living’s going to make fools of human beings.”

Miss Armacost led the way, Mary carried the moaning poodle, and Molly’s curiosity, getting the better of all other considerations, forced her to bring up the rear.

There followed a dreadful half-hour, in which the girl forgot that she should be at home, because of the hurry and excitement in Miss Lucy’s upper sitting-room. By the end of that time Sir Christopher had ceased to suffer the ills of age and indiscretion, and lay quite still upon the silken cushions of his basket where his mistress had placed him.

When she found he was really dead the lady went away by herself, with her grief that was so real to her, yet might have seemed so foolish to others. Molly stole softly out of the house to tell the unusual happenings of her play hour to the sympathetic ears in Side Street. The short winter day came to a close. Darkness filled the back parlor where the forgotten Towsley had remained to enjoy his treat; and where, at length, the heat and quietude overcame him, so that he slipped from the hard stool to the soft carpet and fell asleep.

It was nine o’clock in the evening when Miss Armacost re-entered the room and touched another electric button. Instantly the place was flooded with light, and then she discovered the child.

“My, my! what a start that gave me! That boy here yet! What in the world shall I do with him? The threatened snow-storm has come and seems like the beginning of a blizzard. He didn’t belong to that Molly, she said, but of course he can’t stay here. I – I – Oh, dear! Troubles never come singly. I can’t keep him all night. I simply cannot. Yet I wouldn’t turn even a dog – ”

When Miss Armacost’s thoughts reached this point she seemed to see Sir Christopher looking up into her face suggestively. He had been only a dog, to be sure, and this was only a street vagabond; yet the suggestion her mind had received really so staggered the mistress of the corner house on the Avenue that she suddenly sat down and clasped her hands in nervous trepidation.

“What – what – if I should – actually do it! What would the neighbors say!”

“Ma’am?” asked the waif, drowsily, sitting up and regarding his surroundings with surprise. “I – I – Where am I at?”

“At – home, my child,” answered Miss Lucy, with a gasp at her own daring.

Towsley was now fully awake; and, what was better, he seemed to have lost his shyness during his nap.

“Um’m. Home. That’s where folks live that has ’em. This is yours, I s’pose. Well, I’m much obliged to you, ma’am, and I’ll be getting on, I guess. Must be dark out-doors, else you wouldn’t have the lamps lit, and I must have slept a good while. It was terrible warm and nice, and I couldn’t help it. I hope I haven’t done no harm, ma’am, and good-night.”