Chapter VII My Good Old Pal
Here we have reached a stage in my story where I must introduce to you the dearest friend of all, my good old pal, my Bill.
Bill is only a dog, but when the doors of my past banged shut behind me he was the only one able to squeeze through them into my better life. He is the only relic of my other days and a living witness of remembrance.
And, who can tell, but he, too, may have gone through a transformation, if that was necessary in his case. He was always faithful, true and loyal, and what would you think of me were I to repudiate him now?
Those who know me do believe and you will believe that I have not the shadow of desire to detract one iota from the work accomplished by my little martyr, but I would be grossly unjust were I to deprive Bill of the credit due him for his share in the making of me.
I am a man; I feel it. My soul and conscience tell me so, and to all the forces and factors that combined in my transformation I owe a debt of gratitude which deeds only—not words—can repay. If this mentioning of Bill shall demonstrate to you that he was of importance in my regeneration, then I shall have paid part of my debt to him.
Not very long ago the rector of a fashionable church in New York City came forward with the blunt claim that dogs have more than intelligence; that they have souls. Of course, this assertion caused a storm of indignation and a flood of discussion in many circles. Dogs were rated very low after that in the list of intellectual values by the representatives of those circles.
It is fortunate that I am not sufficiently learned or educated to have an authoritative or deciding voice in the matter, for it will save me from criticism when I become too enthusiastic about my good dumb, soulless brute.
Yet, I wish, pray and hope that he has a soul.
Between First and Houston street, on the Bowery, was a saloon which was known throughout the land as the “hang-out” of the most notorious toughs and crooks in the country. Still, the place was nightly visited by persons called “ladies and gentlemen,” representatives, specimens, of the “best” classes of society.
I was employed there as “bouncer.” My nightly duty was to suppress trouble of any kind and at all hazards.
The business staff of my employer included a number of gentlemen who were renowned for their deftness of touch, and who, at various and frequent times, had had their photographs taken free of charge at a certain sombre-looking building in Mulberry street.
Their code of ethics—never adopted by the public at large—was most elastic. Still, there were times when they did overreach the limits of Bowery etiquette and then it became my painful duty to rise in righteous indignation and smite them into seeing the error of their ways.
One night a middle-aged man of respectable appearance, evidently the host of a party of “sightseers,” got into a quarrel with a member of the mentioned gentry. There was a rumpus of sufficient volume to distract the attention of the other patrons from their most important duty, that of spending their money, and I was forced to take a hand in it.
I quickly ascertained that the “sightseer” and his friends were lavish “spenders,” and, with a great display of dramatic effect, I ejected the loafer, who had already become decidedly threatening. That, a few minutes later he found his way back again via the little, ever-handy side door, was a fact not made public.
My stylish “sightseer” had been somewhat sobered by the occurrence and was most effusive in thanking me for having so gallantly rescued him. A lingering sense of shame and realization of his position made him turn homeward, but before leaving he insisted that I should call at his home on the following day to be properly rewarded for having prevented him from falling further into the contumely of contempt.
Greed was then one of my many besetting sins, and without losing any time I called at the address given to me. It was a rather pretentious dwelling in one of New York’s thoroughfares of ease and good living, and I could not help speculating on the moral make-up of a man who could leave this abode of comfort and home cheer behind to spend his leisure hours in a “good time” at a Bowery dive. Even though I could not read or write at that time, and was not sensible to the world’s finer motives, such an act on the part of a man who had all that life could give, seemed to be beyond the ken of human intelligence and my humble understanding.
The reception accorded to me was none too cordial. He seemed to regard me as a blackmailer, and, alas! he was very nearly correct in his estimate. After entreating me not to breathe a word to any living soul about his nightly adventure, he invited me to follow him to the stable in the rear of the house, where I was to receive the reward for my righteous conduct.
My hopes fell at this.
Stables are the lodging places of horses, and I began to wonder if he could imagine the consequences were I to attempt to lead a gift horse through the streets down to the Bowery. The police, if in nothing else, are very careful in looking after strayed horses and delight in finding, by accident, a pretended owner at the other end of the halter rope.
I mentioned all this to him, but he only laughed and bade me wait. He took me to a stall, and there pointed with pride at a litter of pure-bred bull pups who were taking a nap at the breast of their mother. He stooped and, one by one, lifted them up by the scruff of their necks for my inspection.
I felt disappointed, saw my dream of reward evaporate, and could not screw up any interest in the canine exhibition.
My aversion for all dogs dated from my years as newsboy in Park Row. One homeless little cur, a mongrel looking for a bit of sympathy in his miserable existence, once made friendly overtures to me. I was still a brute—bestial, cruel—and sent the poor thing yelping with a kick. As soon as he had regained his footing he waited for his chance and then bit me in the leg.
Therefore I hated dogs, and reveled in the execution of my hatred.
I watched the pups with ill-concealed disgust. The little fat fellows hung limp and listless until dropped back into their nest. Just as I was priming myself to propose a compromise on a cash basis, a little rogue, different from his brothers, was elevated for examination. Instead of hanging quietly like the rest of the younger generation of the family, he twisted and wriggled, while his eyes, one of them becomingly framed in black, shone with play, appeal and good nature.
The shadow of a smile must have been on my lips, for the owner placed the pup in my arms and presented me with it.
My first impulse was to drop the pup and kick it back into the stall, but the little fellow seemed to consider his welcome as an understood thing, and with a sigh of content snuggled into the hollow of my arm. He was on my left side, and his warmth must have been infective, for I felt a peculiar if dull glow creep into my heart.
Without exactly knowing what I was doing, I tucked my new property under my coat and made my way to my room. It is a question whether the pup gained by the exchange of quarters. My room was on the top floor of an old-fashioned tenement. The ceiling was slanting and not able to cope efficiently with the rain. Of the original four panes of glass in the window, only two remained, paper having been substituted for the others. There was a cot, a three-legged chair, and a washstand with a cracked basin, and a pitcher.
I dropped the pup on the cot, and intended to note how he would take to his new surroundings. He failed to notice them. First, he squatted down and looked at me intently. I must have passed inspection, for, not seeing me draw closer, he came to the edge of the bed and gave a little whine. I meant to grab him by the neck and throw him to the floor, but when my hand touched him he felt so soft and warm, and—well, I patted him. Of course, I had no intention of allowing a pup to change the tenor of my life. That night I went to the saloon at the accustomed time and did my “duty” as well as before. However, at odd moments, I would think of the little fellow up in the room.
It had been our custom to spend the major part of the night drinking and carousing after the close of business. But on the morning succeeding the pup’s arrival, I thought it best to go to my room at once, as he might have upset things or caused other damage. That is what I tried to make myself believe—a rather difficult feat in view of the pup’s enormous bulk and ferocity—not caring to interpret my feelings. I opened the door of my attic room and peeped in. The little fellow was curled upon the blanket and did not wake until I stood beside him. Then he lifted his little nose, recognized me, and went off again into the land of canine dreams.
As I was burdened with the dog, I could not let him starve. Therefore, my neighbors had the wonderful, daily spectacle before them of seeing me, the champion rough and tumble fighter of the city, go to the grocery store on the corner and buy three cents’ worth of milk and sundry other delicacies suitable to my room-mate. Had they taken it good-naturedly, I would have felt ashamed and the pup would have fared badly in his nursing, but my neighbors sneered and smiled at my unusual proceeding which did seem rather incongruous, and, mainly to spite them and give them a chance to break their amused silence, did I persist in playing my new part, that of care-taker and nurse to his royal highness, the dog.
I became used to him, after a fashion, and, though showering very little affection on the pup, he seemed to be supremely happy in my company. We had been together for some time before I was sure of our relative positions. Always finding him asleep on my return from the saloon, I was surprised to hear him move about, one morning, as I was inserting the key in the lock. I opened the door, and before me danced the pup in a veritable frenzy of delight at beholding me. This not being a psychological essay, only a plain, true story, I shall not attempt to analyze, but will tell you straight facts in a straight way.
It was a new, a bewildering sensation to me to perceive a living being to be so pleased at my appearance. It was a new, a strange welcome, perhaps not entirely unselfish, because milk and good things to eat generally came with me, but, still, much purer and more sincere than, the greeting “hello” or loud-mouthed invitation to drink vouchsafed me by ribald companions.
I had not yet softened, at least, did not realize it, or would not admit it, but in occasional, unobserved moments, a sporadic, spontaneous dropping of the hard outer shell would come to me and I would not deny it until my “manhood” whispered to me: “Why, what is the matter with you? Are you not ashamed of giving way to your feelings? You are a man, a great, big, tough man, and not supposed to have any softer emotions. Get yourself together and be again a worthy member of your class!”
I must have been in one of these softer moods on the morning when the pup gave his first outspoken recognition. Why I did it, I do not know, but I lifted the little fellow to my arms and sat down on the bed. To us two a critical moment had come and it was best to make the most of it.
“Do you like me, pup?” I asked in all seriousness.
Bless me, if that little thing did not try to bark an emphatic “Yes!” Oh, it was no deep-toned growl or snarl. It was the pup’s first effort in the barking line, and it sounded very much like a compound of whine and grunt. But I understood and we settled down to talk the matter over.
I realized that the pup was entitled to be named, and that matter was first in order.
“See here, pup; you and I are very plain and ordinary people, and it wouldn’t do to give you a ‘high-toned’ name. Now, what do you say to ‘Bill’?—just plain ‘Bill’?”
The motion was speedily passed, and then Bill and I went to discuss other questions.
“Bill, you and I aren’t overburdened with friends. If you and I were to die at the same moment, not even a cock or crow would croak a requiem for us. Now, I am going to make you a proposition. You’re friendless, and so am I; you’re ugly and so am I; you belong to the most unintelligent class of your kind and so do I; why not establish a partnership between us?”
Bill had sat, watching my lips and looking as wise as a sphinx, until I asked the question. He answered in the affirmative, without a moment’s hesitation.
“I’m glad you like my proposition, Bill. Now you and I are going to live our own life, without regard for others. We’re going to stick to each other, Bill; we’re going to be loyal to each other, and, though we do not amount to much in the world, to each other we must be the best of our class. We’re going to be true friends.”
I took Bill’s paw, and, there and then, we sealed the compact, which was never broken.
Our relationship being founded on this basis, I spent a good deal of my spare time in the room, which until Bill’s arrival, had been nothing but my sleeping place. Soon the bare walls and the dilapidated condition of the furniture began to grate on me and, slowly, I improved our home. I bought a few pictures from a peddler, purchased two plaster casts from an Italian, and even employed a glazier to put our window in good shape. Bill and I took pride in our home, and thought it the very acme of coziness. You see, neither one of us had ever known a real home.
But dogs, as well as men, need exercise, and, in the afternoon, attired in our best—Bill with his glittering collar, on which the proceeds of a whole night had been expended—we took our walk along the avenue. He was beautifully ugly, and the usual pleasant witticisms, such as, “Which is the dog?” were often inflicted upon us. But we didn’t mind, being a well-established firm of partners, who could afford to overlook the comments of mere outsiders.
In the midst of our prosperity came an unexpected break. A reform wave swept over the city and closed most of the “resorts.” The loss of my position left us in a badly crippled financial condition.
Bill and I had lived in a style befitting two celebrities. Porterhouse steaks, fine chops, and cutlets had been frequent items on our bills of fare. The drop was sudden and emphatic. Stews, fried liver, and hash took the place of the former substantial meals, and our constitutions did not thrive very well. It did not even stop at that, for, ere long, we were regular habitués of the free-lunch counters. It often almost broke my heart to see my Bill, well bred and blooded, feed on the scraps thrown to him from a lunch counter. But there was a dog for you! Instead of turning his nose up at it, or eating it with growl and disgust, Bill would devour the pickled tripe or corned beef with a well-feigned relish. Between the mouthfuls his glance would seek mine and he would say, quite plainly: “Don’t worry on my account. I’m getting along very nicely on sour tripe. In fact, it is a favorite dish of mine.”
You poor, soulless Bill, of whom many men; with souls, could learn a lesson in grit and pluck!
During that spell of idleness our hours in the room were less cheerful than before. I must confess that my “blues” were inspired by material cares, and not by any regrets or self-reproaches; but, whatever the cause, they were sitting oppressively on me, and I often found myself in an atmosphere of the most ultra indigo. It did not take Bill very long to understand these moods, and, by right of his partnership, he took a hand in dispelling them.
He would place himself directly in front of me, and stare at me with unflinching gaze. Not noticing any effect of his hypnotic suggestions, he would go further, and place his paw on my knee, with a little pleading whine. Having awakened my attention, he would put himself into proper oratorical pose and loosen the flood-gates of his rhetoric.
“Say, Kil, I gave you credit for more sense and courage. Here you are, sitting with your hands in your lap, and bemoaning a fate which is largely of your own making. Besides—excuse me for being so brutally frank—you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Big and strong, you live in idleness, and now you kick because you are down and out and deprived of your despicable means of livelihood. Owen Kildare, brace up and be a man. You are not friendless. I am here. True, I’m only a dog, a soulless brute, but I’m your Bill, and we’re going to stick until we both win out!”
You will not offend me by calling me a silly fool for putting these words into Bill’s mouth. Perhaps I err greatly in believing that Bill was not without influence over me, or that I could understand him; perhaps it was all imagination, but, if it was—and I doubt it—it was good, because, no matter what it may be, whether imagination, inspiration or aspiration, if it leads up and not down, it cannot be too highly appreciated.
There were times when Bill’s speech was either less convincing or my period of blues more pronounced than usual, and then he would resort to more drastic measures. He undertook to prove by the most vivid object lesson that a buoyancy of spirits is the first essential. Dogs, when gay and playful, run and romp. Bill made believe he was gay, and romped and raced and ran. If you will take note of the fact that the exact measurements of the room were fifteen by twelve feet, you can easily imagine the difficulties opposing Bill’s exercise. Snorting and puffing, he would cavort about the narrow precincts, now running into a bedpost, now bumping against the shaky washstand. But he always accomplished his object, because, before his collapse from his exertions, he never failed to put me into a paroxysm of laughter. No “blues” could ever withstand Bill’s method.
Still, he was but a brute—a poor, dumb brute.