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| "Arf. Arf." < growls > |
Max Brand
“Shut up your yapping,” Peter Zinn greeted his wife. “Shut up and take care of this pup. He’s my kind of dog.”
When Zinn came home from prison, no one was
at the station to meet him except the constable, Tom Frejus, who laid a hand on
his shoulder and said: “Now, Zinn, let this here be a lesson to you. Give me a
chance to treat you white. I ain’t going to hound you. Just remember that
because you’re stronger than other folks you ain’t got any reason to beat them
up.”
Zinn looked down upon him from a height.
Every day of the year during which he had swung his sledge hammer to break
rocks for the State roads, he had told himself that one good purpose was
served: his muscles grew harder, the fat dropped from his waist and shoulders, the
iron square of his chin thrust out as in his youth, and when he came back to
town he would use that strength to wreak upon the constable his old hate. For
manifestly Tom Frejus was his archenemy. When he first came to Sioux Crossing
and fought the three men in Joe Riley’s saloon—oh, famous and happy
night!—Constable Frejus gave him a warning. When he fought the Gandil brothers
and beat them both senseless, Frejus arrested him. When his old horse, Fidgety,
balked in the back lot and Zinn tore a rail from the fence in lieu of a club,
Tom Frejus arrested him for cruelty to dumb beasts. This was a crowning
torment, for, as Zinn told the judge, he’d bought that old skate with good
money and he had a right to do what he wanted with it. But the judge, as always,
agreed with Tom Frejus. These incidents were only items in a long list which
culminated when Zinn drank deep of bootleg whisky and then beat up the
constable himself. The constable, at the trial, pleaded for clemency on
account, he said, of Zinn’s wife and three children; but Zinn knew, of course,
that Frejus wanted him back only that the old persecution might begin. On this
day, therefore the ex-convict, in pure excess of rage, smiled down on the
constable.
“Keep out of my way, Frejus,” he said, “and
you’ll keep a whole skin. But some day I’ll get you alone, and then I’ll bust
you in two—like this!”
He made an eloquent gesture; then he strode
off up the street. As the sawmill had just closed, a crowd of returning workers
swarmed on the sidewalks, and Zinn took off his cap so that they could see his
cropped head. In his heart of hearts he hoped that some one would jibe, but the
crowd split away before him and passed with cautiously averted eyes. Most of
them were big, rough fellows and their fear was pleasant balm for his savage
heart. He went on with his hands a little tensed to feel the strength of his
arms.
He reached the hilltop and looked down to his
home in the hollow. A vague wonder and sorrow came upon him to find that all
had been held together in spite of his absence. There was even a new coat of
paint upon the woodshed and a hedge of young firs was growing neatly around the
front yard. In fact, the homestead seemed to be prospering as though his
strength were not needed! He digested this reflection with an oath and looked
sullenly about him. On the corner a little white dog watched him with lowered
ears and a tail curved under its belly.
“Get out, cur!” snarled Zinn. He picked up a
rock and threw it with such good aim that it missed the dog by a mere inch or
two, but the puppy merely pricked its ears and straightened its tail.
“It’s silly with the cold,” said Zinn
himself, chuckling. “This time I’ll smear it.”
He pried from the roadway a stone of three or
four pounds, took good aim, and hurled it as lightly as a pebble flies from the
sling. Too late the white dog leaped to the side, for the flying missile caught
it a glancing blow that tumbled it over and over. Zinn, muttering with
pleasure, scooped up another stone, but when he raised it this time the stone
fell from his hand, so great was his surprise. The white dog, with a line of
red along its side where a ragged edge of the stone had torn the skin, had
gained its feet and now was driving silently straight at the big man. Indeed,
Zinn had barely time to aim a kick at the little brute, which it dodged as a
rabbit turns from the jaws of the hound. Then two rows of small, sharp teeth
pierced his trousers and sank into the flesh of his leg. He uttered a yell of
surprise rather than pain. He kicked the swaying, tugging creature, but still
it clung, working the puppy teeth deeper with intent devotion. He picked up the
fallen stone and brought it down heavily with a blow that laid open the skull
and brought a gush of blood, but though the body of the little savage grew
limp, the jaws were locked. He had to pry them apart with all his strength.
Then he swung the loose, senseless body into the air by the hind legs.
What stopped him he could not tell. Most of
all it was the stabbing pain in his leg and the marvel that so small a dog could
have dared so much. But at last he tucked it under his arm, regardless of the
blood that trickled over his coat. He went down the hill, kicked open the front
door, and threw down his burden. Mrs. Zinn was coming from the kitchen with a
shrill cry that sounded more like fear than like a welcome to Zinn.
“Peter! Peter!” she cried at him, clasping
her hands together and staring.
“Shut up your yapping,” said Peter Zinn.
“Shut up and take care of this pup. He’s my kind of a dog.”
His three sons wedged into the doorway and
gaped at him with round eyes and white faces.
“Look here,” he said, pointing to his
bleeding leg. “That damned pup done that. That’s the way I want you kids to
grow up. Fight anything. Fight a buzz saw. You don’t need to go to no school
for lessons. You can foller after Blondy, there.”
So Blondy was christened; so he was given a
home. Mrs. Zinn, who had been a trained nurse in her youth, nevertheless stood
by with moans of sympathy while her husband took the necessary stitches in the
head of Blondy.
“Keep still, fool,” said Mr. Zinn. “Look at
Blondy. He ain’t even whining. Pain don’t hurt nothing. Pain is the making of a
dog—or a man! Look at there—if he ain’t licking my hand! He knows his master!”
A horse kicked old Joe Harkness the next day,
and Peter Zinn took charge of the blacksmith shop. He was greatly changed by
his stay in the penitentiary, so that superficial observers in the town of
Sioux Crossing declared that he had been reformed by punishment, inasmuch as he
no longer blustered or hunted fights in the streets of the village. He attended
to his work, and as everyone admitted that no farrier in the country could fit
horseshoes better, or do a better job at welding, when Joe Harkness returned to
his shop he kept Zinn as a partner. Neither did Peter Zinn waste time or money
on bootleg whisky, but in spite of these new and manifold virtues some of the
very observant declared that there was more to be feared from the silent and
settled ferocity of his manner than from the boisterous ways which had been his
in other days. Constable Tom Frejus was among the latter. And it was noted that
he practiced half an hour every day with his revolver in the back of his lot.
 |
| ...a reformed man... |
So Peter Zinn took charge of the blacksmith shop, and the town declared him reformed.
Blondy, in the meantime, stepped into
maturity in a few swift months. On his fore and hind quarters the big ropy
muscles thrust out. His neck grew thicker and more arched, and in his dark
brown eyes there appeared a wistful look of eagerness which never left him
saving when Peter Zinn was near. The rest of the family he tolerated, but did
not love. It was in vain that Mrs. Zinn, eager to please a husband whose
transformation had filled her with wonder and with awe, lavished attentions
upon Blondy and fed him with dainties twice a day. It was in vain that the
three boys petted and fondled and talked kindly to Blondy. He endured these
demonstrations, but did not return them. But when five o’clock came in the
evening of the day, Blondy went out to the gate of the front yard and stood
there like a white statue until a certain heavy step sounded on the wooden
sidewalk up the hill. That noise changed Blondy into an ecstasy of impatience,
and when the big man came through the gate, Blondy raced and leaped about him
with such a muffled whine of joy, coming from such deeps of his heart, that his
whole body trembled. At meals Blondy lay across the feet of the master. At
night he curled into a warm circle at the foot of the bed.
There was only one trouble with Blondy. When people asked: “What sort of a dog is that?” Peter Zinn could never answer anything except: “A hell of a good fighting dog; you can lay to that.” It was a stranger who finally gave them information, a lumber merchant who had come to Sioux Crossing to buy timber land. He stopped Peter Zinn on the street and crouched on his heels to admire Blondy.
“A real white one,” said he. “As fine a bull
terrier as I ever saw. What does he weigh?”
“Fifty-five pounds,” said Zinn.
“I’ll give you five dollars for every pound
of him,” said the stranger.
Peter Zinn was silent.
“Love him too much to part with him, eh?”
asked the other, smiling up at the big blacksmith.
“Love him?” snorted Zinn. “Love a dog! I
ain’t no fool.”
“Ah?” said the stranger. “Then what’s your
price?”
Peter Zinn scratched his head; then he
scowled, for when he tried to translate Blondy into terms of money, his wits
failed him.
“That’s two hundred and seventy-five
dollars,” he said finally.
“I’ll make it three hundred, even. And, mind
you. my friend, this dog is useless for show purposes. You’ve let him fight too
much, and he’s covered with scars. No trimming can make that right ear
presentable. However, he’s a grand dog, and he’d be worth something in the stud.”
Zinn hardly heard the last of this. He was
considering that for three hundred dollars he could extend the blacksmith shop
by one-half and get a full partnership with Harkness, or else he could buy that
four-cylinder car which young Thompson wanted to sell. Yet even the showy
grandeur of an automobile would hardly serve. He did not love Blondy. Love was
an emotion which he scorned as beneath the dignity of a strong man. He had not
married his wife because of love, but because he was tired of eating in restaurants
and because other men had homes. The possession of an automobile would put the
stamp upon his new prosperity, but could an automobile welcome him home at
night or sleep at his feet?
“I dunno,” he said at last. “I guess I ain’t
selling.”
And he walked on. He did not feel more kindly
toward Blondy after this. In fact, he never mentioned the circumstance, even in
his home, but often when he felt the warmth of Blondy at his feet he was both
baffled and relieved.
In the meantime Blondy had been making
history in Sioux Crossing hardly less spectacular than that of Zinn. His idea
of play was a battle; his conception of a perfect day embraced the killing of
two or three dogs. Had he belonged to anyone other than Zinn, he would have
been shot before his career was well started, but his owner was such a known
man that guns were handled but not used when the white terror came near. It
could be said in his behalf that he was not aggressive and, unless urged on,
would not attack another. However, he was a most hearty and capable finisher of
a fight if one were started.
He first took the eye of the town through a
fracas with Bill Curry’s brindled bulldog, Mixer. Blondy was seven or eight
pounds short of his magnificent maturity when he encountered Mixer and touched
noses with him; then the bulldog reached for Blondy’s left foreleg, snapped his
teeth in the empty air, and the fun began. As Harkness afterward put it: “Mixer
was like thunder, but Blondy was lightning on wheels.” Blondy drifted around
the heavier dog for five minutes as illusive as a phantom. Then he slid in,
closed the long, pointed, fighting jaw on Mixer’s gullet, and was only pried
loose from a dead dog.
After that the great Dane which had been
brought to town by Mr. Henry Justice, the mill owner, took the liberty of
snarling at the white dog and had his throat torn out in consequence. When Mr.
Justice applied to the law for redress, the judge told him frankly that he had
seen the fight and that he would sooner hang a man than hang Blondy. The rest
of the town was of the same opinion. They feared but respected the white
slayer, and it was pointed out that though he battled like a champion against
odds, yet when little Harry Garcia took Blondy by the tail and tried to tie a
knot in it, the great terrier merely pushed the little boy away with his
forepaws and then went on his way.
 |
| Dickheads with big dogs... |
However, there was trouble in the air, and Charlie Kitchen brought it to a head. In his excursions to the north he had chanced upon a pack of hounds used indiscriminately to hunt and kill anything that walked on four legs, from wolves to mountain lions and grizzly bears. The leader of that pack was a hundred-and-fifty-pound monster—a cross between a gigantic timber wolf and a wolfhound. Charlie could not borrow that dog, but the owner himself made the trip to Sioux Crossing and brought Gray King, as the dog was called, along with him. Up to that time Sioux Crossing felt that the dog would never be born that could live fifteen minutes against Blondy, but when the northerner arrived with a large roll of money and his dog, the town looked at Gray King and pushed its money deeper into its pocket. For the King looked like a fighting demon, and in fact was one. Only Peter Zinn had the courage to bring out a hundred dollars and stake it on the result.
They met in the vacant lot next to the post
office where the fence was loaded with spectators, and in this ample arena it
was admitted that the wolf dog would have plenty of room to display all of his
agility. As a matter of fact, it was expected that he would slash the heart out
of Blondy in ten seconds. Slash Blondy he did, for there is nothing canine in
the world that can escape the flash of a wolf’s side rip. A wolf fights by
charges and retreats, coming in to slash with its great teeth and try to knock
the foe down with the blow of its shoulder. The Gray King cut Blondy twenty
times, but they were only glancing knife-edge strokes. They took the blood, but
not the heart from Blondy, who, in the meantime, was placed too low and solidly
on the ground to be knocked down. At the end of twenty minutes, as the Gray
King leaped in, Blondy side-stepped like a dancing boxer, then dipped in and up
after a fashion that Sioux Crossing knew of old, and set that long, punishing
jaw in the throat of the King. The latter rolled, writhed, and gnashed the air,
but fate had him by the windpipe, and in thirty seconds he was helpless. Then
Peter Zinn, as a special favor, took Blondy off.
Afterward the big man from the north came to
pay his bet, but Zinn, looking up from his task of dressing the terrier’s
wounds, flung the money back in the face of the stranger.
Dogs ain’t the only things that fight in
Sioux Crossing, he announced, and the stranger, pocketing his pride and his
money at the same time, led his staggering dog away.
From that time forward Blondy was one of the
sights of the town—like Sandoval Mountain. He was pointed out constantly and
people said: “Good dog!” from a safe distance, but only Tom Frejus appreciated
the truth. He said: “What keeps Zinn from getting fight-hungry? Because he has
a dog that does the fighting for him. Every time Blondy sinks his teeth in the
hide of another dog, he helps to keep Zinn out of jail. But some day Zinn will
bust through!”
This was hardly a fair thing for the
constable to say, but the nerves of honest Tom Frejus were wearing thin. He
knew that sooner or later the blacksmith would attempt to execute his threat of
breaking him in two, and the suspense lay heavily upon Tom. He was still
practicing steadily with his guns; he was still as confident as ever of his own
courage and skill; but when he passed on the street the gloomy face of the
blacksmith, a chill of weakness entered his blood.
The Zinns took breakfast in the kitchen this
Thursday, so that the warmth of the cookstove might fight the frost out of the
air, and Oliver, the oldest boy, announced from the window that old Gripper,
the constable’s dog, had come into the back yard. The blacksmith rose to make
sure. He saw Gripper, a big black-and-tan sheep dog, nosing the top of the
garbage can, and a grin of infinite satisfaction came to the face of Peter
Zinn. First he cautioned the family to remain discreetly indoors. Then he stole
out by the front way, came around to the rear of the tall fence which sealed
his back yard and closed and latched the gate. The trap was closed on Gripper,
after which Zinn returned to the house and lifted Blondy to the kitchen window.
The hair lifted along the back of Blondy’s neck; a growl rumbled in the deeps
of his powerful body. Yonder was his domain, his own yard, of which he knew
each inch, the smell of every weed and rock; yonder was the spot where he had
killed the stray chicken last July; near it was the tall, rank nettle, so
terrible to an over-inquisitive nose; and behold a strange dog pawing at the
very place where, only yesterday, he had buried a stout bone with rich store of
marrow hidden within!
“Oh, Peter, you ain’t—” began Mrs. Zinn.
Her husband silenced her with an ugly glance;
then he opened the back door and tossed Blondy into the yard. The bull terrier
landed lightly, and running. He turned into a white streak which crashed
against Gripper, turned the latter head over heels, and tumbled the shepherd
into a corner. Blondy wheeled to finish the good work, but Gripper lay at his
feet, abject upon his belly, with ears lowered, head pressed between his paws,
wagging a conciliatory tail and whining a confession of shame, fear, and
humility. Blondy leaped at him with a stiff-legged jump and snapped his teeth
at the very side of one of those drooped ears, but Gripper only melted a little
closer to the ground. For, a scant ten days before, he had seen that formidable
warrior, the Chippings’ greyhound, throttled by the white destroyer. What
chance would he have with his worn old teeth? He whined a sad petition through
them and closing his eye he offered up a prayer to the god who watches over all
good dogs: Never, never again would he rummage around a strange back yard if
only this one sin were forgiven!
The door of the house slammed open; a
terrible voice was shouting: Take him, Blondy! Kill him, Blondy.
Blondy, with a moan of battle joy, rushed in
again; his teeth clipped over the neck of Gripper; but the dreadful jaws did
not close. For, even in this extremity. Gripper only whined and wagged his tail
the harder. Blondy danced back.
“You damn quitter!” yelled Peter Zinn. “Tear
him to bits! Take him, Blondy!”
The tail of Blondy flipped from side to side
to show that he had heard. He was shuddering with awful eagerness, but Gripper
would not stir.
“Coward! Coward! Coward!” snarled Blondy.
“Get up and fight. Here I am—half turned away—offering you the first hold—if
you only dare to take it!”
Never was anything said more plainly in dog
talk, saving the pitiful response of Gripper: “Here I lie; kill me if you will.
I am an old, old man with worn-down teeth and a broken heart!”
Blondy stopped snarling and trembling. He
came a bit nearer, and with his own touched the cold nose of Gripper. The old
dog opened one eye.
“Get up,” said Blondy very plainly. “But if
you dare to come near my buried bone again, I’ll murder you, you old rip!”
And he lay down above that hidden treasure,
wrinkling his eyes and lolling out his tongue, which, as all dogs know, is a
sign that a little gambol and play will not be amiss.
“Dad!” cried Oliver Zinn. “He won’t touch old
Gripper. Is he sick?”
“Come here!” thundered Zinn, and when Blondy
came he kicked the dog across the kitchen and sent him crashing into the wall.
“You yaller-hearted cur!” snarled Peter Zinn and strode out of the house to go
to work.
His fury did not abate until he had delivered
a shower of blows with a fourteen-pound sledge upon a bar of cold iron on his
anvil, wielding the ponderous hammer with one capacious hand. After that he was
able to try to think it out. It was very mysterious. For his own part, when he
was enraged it mattered not what crossed his path—old and young, weak and
strong, they were grist for the mill of his hands and he ground them small
indeed. But Blondy, apparently, followed a different philosophy and would not
harm those who were helpless.
Then Peter Zinn looked down to the foot which
had kicked Blondy across the room. He was tremendously unhappy. Just why, he
could not tell, but he fumbled at the mystery all that day and the next. Every
time he faced Blondy the terrier seemed to have forgotten that brutal attack,
but Peter Zinn was stabbed to the heart by a brand-new emotion—shame! And when
he met Blondy at the gate on the second evening, something made him stoop and
stroke the scarred head. It was the first caress. He looked up with a hasty
pang of guilt and turned a dark red when he saw his wife watching from the
window of the front bedroom. Yet when he went to sleep that night he felt that
Blondy and he had been drawn closer together.
 |
| Angie Dickenson as Mrs. Zinn, in a candid moment. |
The very next day the crisis came. He was
finishing his lunch when guns began to bark and rattle—reports with a metallic
and clanging overtone which meant that rifles were in play; then a distant
shouting rolled confusedly upon them. Peter Zinn called Blondy to his heels and
went out to investigate.
The first surmise that jumped into his mind
had been correct. Jeff and Lew Minster had broken from jail, been headed off in
their flight, and had taken refuge in the post office. There they held the
crowd at bay, Jeff taking the front of the building and Lew the rear. Vacant
lots surrounded the old frame shack since the general merchandise store burned
down three years before, and the rifles of two expert shots commanded this
no-man’s-land. It would be night before they could close on the building, but
when night came the Minster boys would have an excellent chance of breaking
away with darkness to cover them.
“What’ll happen?” asked Tony Jeffreys of the
blacksmith as they sat at the corner of the hotel where they could survey the
whole scene.
“I dunno,” said Peter Zinn, as he puffed at
his pipe. “I guess it’s up to the constable to show them that he’s a hero.
There he is now!”
The constable had suddenly dashed out of the
door of Sam Donoghue’s house, directly facing the post office, followed by four
others, in the hope that he might take the defenders by surprise. But when men
defend their lives they are more watchful thar wolves in the hungry winter of
the mountains. A Winchester spoke from a window of the post office the moment
the forlorn hope appeared. The first bullet knocked the hat from the head of
Harry Daniels and stopped him in his tracks. The second shot went wide. The
third knocked the feet from under the constable and flattened him in the road.
This was more than enough The remnant of the party took to it heels and
regained shelter safely before the dust raised by his fall had cease curling
above the prostrate body of the constable.
Tony Jeffreys had risen to his feel repeating
over and over an oath of his childhood: “Jimminy whiskers! Jimminy whiskers!
Jimminy whiskers! They’ve killed poor Tom Frejus!” But Peter Zinn, holding the
trembling! eager body of Blondy between his hands, jutted forth his head an
grinned in a savage warmth of contentment.
“He’s overdue!” was all he said.
But Tom Frejus was not dead. His leg had been
broken between the knee and hip, but he now reared himself upon both hands and
looked about him. He had covered the greater part of the road in his charge. It
would be easier to escape from fire by crawling close under the shelter of the
wall of the post office than by trying to get back to Donoghue’s house.
Accordingly, he began to drag himself forward. had not covered a yard when the
Winchester cracked again and Tom crumpled on his face, with both arms flung
around his head.
Tom Frejus was crushed indeed, and begging as
Gripper had begged. A hundred voices were shouting with horror but no man dared
venture out in the face of that cool-witted marksman. Then Peter Zinn knew the
thing which he had been born to do, for which he had been granted strength of
hand and courage of heart. He threw his long arms out before him as though he
were running to embrace a bodiless thing; great wordless voice swelled in his
breast and tore his throat; and he ran out toward the fallen constable.
Some woman’s voice was screaming: “Back! Go
back, Peter! Oh, God! Stop him! Stop him!”
Minster had already marked his coming. The
rifle cracked, and a blow to the side of his head knocked Peter Zinn into utter
blackness. A searing pain and the hot flow of blood down his face brought back
his senses. He leaped to his feet again; he heard a yelp of joy as Blondy
danced away before him; then he drove past the writhing body of Tom Frejus. The
gun spoke again from the window; the red-hot torment stabbed him again, he knew
not where. Then he reached the door of the building and gave his shoulder to
it.
It was a thing of paper that ripped open
before him. He plunged through into the room beyond, where he saw the long,
snarling face of the young Minster in the shadow of a corner with the gleam of
the leveled rifle barrel. He dodged as the gun spat fire, heard brief and
wicked humming beside his ear, then scooped up in one hand heavy chair and
flung it at the gunman.
Minster went down with his legs and arms
sprawled in an odd position, and Peter Zinn gave him not so much as another
glance, for he knew that this part of his work was done.
“Lew! Lew!” cried a voice from the back of
the building. “What’s happened? What’s up? D’you want help?”
“Ay!” shouted Peter Zinn. “He wants help. You
damn’ murderer, it’s me—Peter Zinn! Peter Zinn!”
He kicked open the door beyond and ran full
into the face of a lightning flash. It withered the strength from his body. He
slumped down on the floor with his loose shoulders resting against the wall. In
a twilight dimness he saw big Jeff Minster standing in a thin swirl of smoke
with the rifle muzzle twitching down and steadying for the finishing shot, but
a white streak leaped through the doorway, over his shoulder, and flew at
Minster.
Before the sick eyes of Peter Zinn, the man
and the dog whirled into a blur of darkness streaked with white. There passed
two long, long seconds, thick with stampings, the wild curses of Jeff Minster,
the deep and humming growl of Blondy. Moreover, out of the distance a great
wave of voices was rising, sweeping toward the building.
“Your damned dog first—then you!” gasped
Minster.
And strength poured hot upon his body, a
strength so great that he could reach his hand to the rifle on the floor,
gather it to him, put his finder on the trigger, and raise the muzzle slowly,
slowly as though it weighed a ton.
The knife had fallen again. It was a half
crimson dog that still clung to the slayer. Feet beat, voices boomed like a
waterfall in the next room. Then, as the knife rose again, Zinn pulled the
trigger, blind to his target, and as the thick darkness brushed across his
brain, saw something falling before him.
He seemed, after a time, to be walking down
an avenue of utter blackness. Then a thin star ray of light glistened before
him. It widened. A door of radiance opened through which he stepped and found
himself—lying between cool sheets with the binding grip of bandages holding him
in many places and wherever the bandages held, the deep, sickening ache of
wounds. Dr. Burney leaned above him, squinting as though Peter Zinn were far
away. Then Peter’s big hand caught him.
“Doc,” he said. “What’s happened? Gimme the
worst of it.”
“If you lie quiet, my friend,” said the
doctor, “and husband your strength, and fight for yourself as bravely as you
fought for Constable Frejus, you’ll pull through well enough. You have to pull
through, Zinn, because this town has a good deal to say that you ought to hear.
Besides—”
“Hell, man,” said Peter Zinn, the savage, “I
mean the dog. I mean Blondy—how—what I mean to say is—”
 |
| Max Brand. |
But then a great foreknowledge came upon
Peter Zinn, His own life having been spared, fate had taken another in
exchange, and Blondy would never lie warm upon his feet again. He closed his
eyes and whispered huskily: “Say yes or no, Doc. Quick!”
But the doctor was in so little haste that he
turned away and walked to the door, where he spoke in a low voice.
“He’s got to have help,” said Peter Zinn to
his own dark heart. “He’s got to have help to tell me how a growed-up man
killed a poor pup.”
Footsteps entered. “The real work I’ve been
doing,” said the doctor, “hasn’t been with you. Look up, Zinn!”
Peter Zinn looked up, and over the edge of
the doctor’s arm he saw a long, narrow white head, with a pair of brown-black
eyes and a wistfully wrinkled forehead. Blondy, swathed in soft white linen,
was laid upon the bed and crept up closer until the cold point of his nose,
after his fashion, was hidden in the palm of the master’s hand. Now big Peter
beheld the doctor through a mist spangled with magnificent diamonds, and he saw
that Burney had found it necessary to turn his head away. He essayed speech
which twice failed, but at the third effort he managed to say in a voice strange
to himself: “Take it by and large, doc, it’s a damn good old world.”
Transcriber’s
Note: This story appeared in the February 23, 1924 issue
of Collier’s magazine.
END
Louis
Shalako has books and stories on Smashwords.
See his stuff on ArtPal.
Here’s a free audiobook, The Handbag’s Tale, the short story that inspired The Inspector Gilles Maintenon Series.
More on Max Brand. (Wiki)
Thank
you for reading, and listening.
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