Part 9

After a few introductory remarks, he cleared his throat, and in sonorous tones began to speak of--hydrophobia! Why he should pitch on that as a subject of discussion is as great a marvel as the man himself. Possibly, he had been bitten by an exasperated mad dog at some period in his life, and could not overcome the temptation of speaking of it now. But the probability is that he considered himself the fountain-head of all sciences and theories, of physics and etiology. At all events, whatever the wiseacre’s motive may have been, it is certain that he spoke of hydrophobia.

“My dear little children,” he began, affectionately, “it is of the utmost importance that you should be made acquainted with the latest discoveries that science has made with regard to that most subtle distemper, learnedly called lycanthropy. To those among you who intend to become physicians on attaining majority, this subject will be absorbingly interesting. It is not my purpose to trace this dread distemper from the first mention we have of it down to the present time, but merely to give you a concise description of its operations in the human system, from its incipient stages to the final paroxysms, and also to touch upon the various methods of treatment in repute among those who have conquered immortality by their researches in that field.

“Probably none of you ever beheld a rabid canine. When fleshed in the blood of his victims, he presents one of the most appalling sights that the imagination can conjure up, and rivals in ferocity the fabulous monsters of the ancients. But in good time I shall discourse more at large on his appearance; for the present it is sufficient that I make apparent the--But,” breaking off abruptly, “it is well that there should be a thorough understanding between a speaker and his auditors.”

Then, with that benevolent smile, peculiar to instructors of juveniles when propounding their knotty questions, he demanded, “Little ones, can you define _hydrophobia_ for me?”

The “little ones” stared stolidly and helplessly, but said nothing. The teacher, Mr. Meadows, looking encouraging--then, beseeching--then, mortified--then, irritated--then, wicked. Still the “little ones” maintained silence, both the scholastic and his lecture being unintelligible to them.

He repeated his question; and George--who, although he did not wish to be ranked with the “little ones,” yet feared that the learned man might consider him equally ignorant if he did not speak--rose prepared to give a precise and lengthy definition.

This strikes the key-note to the Sages character.

But a mischievous little gum-chewer, who doubtless could have answered with tolerable correctness, if he had chosen to do so, forestalled him by shouting, at the top of his voice: “Burnt matches and water, Sir!”

Now, it is probable that the juveniles had a chaotic idea of the signification of the word, though unable to define it; and as the youngster just cited was generally correct in his answers, they jumped to the conclusion that he was correct this time; therefore, with a deafening shout, some fifty “little ones” yelled: “BURNT MATCHES and WATER, SIR!!!”

Poor Teacher Meadows! The emotions with which his bosom glowed, were written on his face; and he hitched uneasily in his seat, with that look of grave displeasure supposed to be peculiar to aggrieved persons.

The professor, probably seasoned to such rebuffs, soon recovered his equanimity, and turning to the older scholars, asked, “Cannot _you_ give me a satisfactory answer? Come! Anyone! What is hydrophobia?”

Again an answer quivered on Georges lips; but now Charles forestalled him. Taking his cue from the gum-chewer, Charley said, “Excuse me, sir, but you addressed the little folk, and we, quite politely, left it for them to answer. We know what it means, sir. Hysterphostia is a sort of influenza that yellow dogs catch when they’re fed on too much picnic victuals and spoilt molasses. Then they’re turned loose, with tin cans on their tails, for policemen to shoot at; and everybody that sees them rushing along the street is sure to inhale quinine hyster--”

At this point the speaker’s voice was drowned by roars of laughter from the astonished and delighted boys and girls, and he sat down “amid thunders of applause.”

They, at least, appreciated his absurd reply, his pretended ignorance, and his unblushing effrontery in thus wantonly insulting the august professor. They had evidently taken a dislike to the scientific gentleman, who was altogether too knowing for them, and, idiot-like, rejoiced to see him thus grossly insulted.

The teacher looked stern and furious, and endeavored in vain to stop the hubbub. Was his noble patron to be thus shamefully treated by a mob of ignorant and good-for-nothing school-children, supposed to be under his training and control? Must not the offenders be made to smart for it?

The professor himself was electrified. However, he had too much self-respect to regard anything that a school-boy might say, and after shooting Charles a look of calm contempt, he resumed his discourse, and proceeded to enlighten Teacher Meadows’ brazen-faced blockheads. He spoke long and earnestly on all things relevant to canine madness, and mad dogs, and at length ventured to propose another question.

“What should you do,” he asked, “if a mad dog should burst into this apartment--his bloody eyes starting from their sockets--his mouth wide open, reeking with its lethal venom, and disclosing his cruel, hideous fangs--he himself dashing headlong hither and thither, in his ungovernable fury remorselessly laying low victim upon victim--we ourselves imprisoned here, utterly unable to extricate ourselves?--Ah! you may well shudder at the frightful picture! I forbear. But I repeat, what should you do? Boys and girls, listen:--

“All that is necessary is sufficient presence of mind, together with firm reliance on your nerves, and you will always be able to face and avert the most appalling dangers. And this is the precept that I wish to impress upon you: _Strive to acquire the habit of self-reliance, for no habit is more important._”

“Yes, yes, boys and girls; mark that; always remember that precept;” good Teacher Meadows cried, rising from his seat, and smiling approval.

But the darkened intellect of the juveniles could not take in the weight of such a precept, and a faint murmur of resentment passed from mouth to mouth. In the momentary interruption that ensued, Steve, who sat near an outside door, rose and slipped out quietly. “I guess I’ll show the professor and the rest of the folks what a _rabid canine_ is like!” he chuckled sardonically.

But the scene still lies within the school-house.

The professor was in earnest, and he certainly seemed capable of making personal application of his precepts, though, alas! he had never been put to the test!

“What should you do in such an emergency?” he again demanded.

But he did not wish for an answer, and now he had the goodness to tell the gaping children what he should do. “Without a moment’s deliberation,” he said, “I should, almost mechanically, muster my strength, and prepare to ward off the danger. Knife in hand, I should calmly await his murderous onslaught, and when almost upon me I should disarm his fury by ruthlessly stabbing him to the heart.”

To add force and illustration to his words, and to gain credit with his hearers, the orator whipped out of his pocket a treasure of a knife,--a knife, the possession of which would have shot a thrill of happiness through any understanding boy’s heart,--and brandished it wildly, yet gracefully, slaying myriads of imaginary mad dogs.

Certainly, he seemed master of the situation; but in an actual attack of a mad dog he might have experienced some difficulty in getting his knife out of his pocket, and opened, in time.

But where was the professor’s dignity? Why should he make himself ridiculous for the pastime of idiotic school-children?

Although his spirit revolted at the thought of thus sacrificing himself, yet his benevolence prompted him to do many strange things for the instruction of the ignorant; and on this occasion, he labored not to amuse, but to discipline them.

“Most magnanimous soul! most disinterested savant!” breaks in the reader, struck with admiration for our noble-minded professor.

But when an audible titter ran round the company, the philanthropist hastily pocketed his weapon. Not to be turned from his purpose, however, he resumed his discourse, and artfully harrowed up the feelings of his victims, pausing occasionally to pronounce, and amplify on, some wise and weighty precept.

Teacher Meadows nodded his approbation; the tired school-children became restless and thirsty; their feet went to sleep; they rolled their watery eyes pleadingly. Still the strong-lunged enthusiast continued to hold forth, seemingly taking a malicious pleasure in preying upon their emotions.

Suddenly a distracted boy beheld an object that utterly demoralized him. A piercing shriek of agony burst from his lips, and his eye-balls gleamed like those of an ambushed highwayman.

_Chapter XII._

AN EXTRAORDINARY MAD DOG.

It is now in order to follow up giddy-headed Stephen, and see what mad plot had been hatched in his fertile brain.

By turning back a little way, the reader will find that that hero left the audience-chamber immediately after the professor had so vividly drawn the onslaught of an imaginary mad dog.

“It would serve the crazy old shouter right to test his courage,” he muttered. “What business have people to let such a man speak to chicken-hearted little young-muns, all full of weak nerves, and awful to bellow? He might scare some of ’em into fits! I know I’m fond of ‘boorish tricks,’ as George calls them; but if Charley can talk that way about hydrophobia and yellow dogs, I guess I can safely play this one nice little trick. Why, this would only be in the interests of common sense! And,” cheerfully, “_how Jim would yell!!!_”

Stephen’s mode of reasoning was exceedingly subtile--in fact, like the speech of the philosopher on whom he contemplated playing a trick, it is too subtile for our comprehension. But so long as it removed his scruples, he cared not a goose-quill what others might think.

“Now,” he said to himself, “let me strike out my plans. First is, to find my dog Tip; then, to white-wash him and paint him. But,” doubtfully, “I’m afraid I can’t get any white-wash or any paint. Anyway, it would be better and more natural if I could get him on the trail of some animal. Poor Tip! It’s too bad to treat him so; but then it won’t hurt him any, and if the professor keeps on working up their feelings, I guess there’ll be a stunning howl when Tip bounces into the room, the very picture of a ‘rabid canine’!”

If Steve had tarried a little longer in the school, and seen the professor as he flourished his murderous weapon, he would have thought better of having Tip play the mad dog.

Hurrying along through the school-grounds, he finally halted under a venerable and wide-spreading shade-tree, beloved by all the girls and boys of the school. There before him, rolled up in a ball, lay a vivacious-looking dog, sleeping soundly.

“Eh, Tip!” Steve said. “Good old boy! here you are, just as I hoped.”

At the first words the dog hopped up briskly, and began to caress his master, frisking and barking to express his delight, and disporting himself as only a pet dog can.

It is conjectured that our young readers may be curious to know what species of dog this was. Alas! it is impossible to inform them. Neither his master Stephen nor any other person in the village could affirm positively to what particular species Tip belonged, but all agreed that he was a dog of some sort. This much, however, is known concerning him: He was of medium size and of divers colors, black and white predominating, a universal favorite with all the heroes and heroines of this history.

“Eh, Tip, are you glad to see me? Shall we have some sport? What do you say to a run in the road?”

By way of answer, the dog seized his master’s pants with his sharp teeth, and tugged playfully at them, his way of angling for sport.

“I guess you’ll do, Tip. You’ve got lots of fun in you, if I can keep you going;” and Steve swung open the gate of the school-grounds and passed out with a chuckle, Tip hard at his heels.

Then this giddy-headed boy and his unsuspecting dog turned a corner of the fence, found themselves in a dusty and unfrequented lane, and prepared for action.

“Now, Tip,” said the young rascal, “if we can make you run up and down this lane till you get all covered with dust, and dirt, and slobber, our fortune’ll be made! Come on, Tip; we shan’t need any white-wash nor any paint. Eh, Tip?”

Going on a little farther, till they reached the river, this wicked boy incited his dog to plunge headlong into the water after sticks and stones. Then, returning to the lane, he urged the wet dog to course up and down in the midst of the dust--sometimes after sticks, sometimes after himself. The playful dog enjoyed the sport, and entered into it fully. Soon he presented a woful appearance, but Steve unpityingly spurred him on till he began to pant hard.

“Good!” cried he. “Pant away, Tip, and get yourself well covered with slobber. That’s it! Run, now,--fetch him, Tip; go for him. There, roll in the dust!”

Thus he continued, till the poor dog was fagged out. Then Stephen, even Stephen, relented, and thought seriously of giving up his proposed experiment.

But, ah! the reason was--

“I’m afraid, Tip, that if you _run_ back to school, you’ll be too tired to scare them much, and if you _walk_ back, you’ll lose most of your foam and slobber. And perhaps we might be too late, anyhow. Upon my word,” he cried suddenly, “I never planned how I am to get you into the building! I can’t go with you, and you can’t get in alone!”

In his indecision, Stephen retraced his steps to the gate of the school-grounds, opened it, and with his eyes tried to measure the distance from that place to the castellated school-house--Tip, meanwhile, recovering his strength and sportiveness.

On a sudden, Fate interposed in the form of a muscular and war-worn cat, which appeared leisurely crossing the school-grounds. Tip saw it, and forgetting his weariness, furiously gave chase.

“Sic it, Tip! Sic it!” cried Steve, who, in the excitement of the moment, apparently forgot his trick, and eagerly joined in pursuit.

Tip soon came up with his hereditary enemy, and a frightful combat ensued. Instinct or the force of habit impelled warlike puss to fight stoutly for escape, and he rained blows and execrations, (in the cat language,) that would have done credit to a battle-scarred pirate, upon his assailant.

Tip fought because of his “liking for the thing,” and because his master was pricking him on to victory by such spirit-stirring exclamations as: “Oh, sic it, Tip! Go for him! Beat ’em! Maul ’em! Sh! sh! sh!”

Rabid canine and outraged feline! Would that the professor could have beheld the combat between them!

Presently the dog, with a piteous howl, ceased to fight, and rubbed his head vigorously on the ground; whilst the cat, seizing its opportunity, scampered away towards the school-house.

“Poor little Tip!” said Steve remorsefully, as he observed that his dog was reeking with dust, froth, wounds, and _blood_.

In a moment, however, Tip was up again and in hot pursuit of the persecuted feline, but, not wishing to risk another engagement, that redoubtable warrior found refuge somewhere about the school. Not so Tip. He dashed straight ahead, and made his way into the very room in which were all the school-children, together with Professor Rhadamanthus and Teacher Meadows.

Steve was close on the dogs heels; but on seeing this, he turned back and shot off in despair.

“Oh!” he groaned, “this is worse than I meant it to be! Every one’ll think that Tip is stark staring mad! O dear me! What shall I do! what shall I do!”

Tips arrival was most opportune. Thanks to the professor’s vivid imagery, all the scholars were perspiring with racking excitement, and so blood-stained an apparition as Tip could not fail to create a commotion. Tip still retained sufficient strength and agility to burst impetuously into the room, and the sudden appearance of an animated mass of slaver, wounds, and blood, was enough to unhinge the mind of any school boy in the Union.

There were more than one hundred boys in the school; more than forty had a stout jack-knife in their left-hand trowsers pocket; more than thirty had one in their right hand trowsers pocket; some five had both a penknife and a jack-knife about their person; about twenty phlegmatic and chuckle-headed cubs--who took only a languid interest in anything but peppermint candy, circus serpent-charmers, and noisy fireworks--had their jack-knives out, and were trying to while away the time by rounding off the sharp angles of their brand-new lesson-books. As for the others, they had lost their jack-knives on their way to school, and consequently had none. Alas, professor! your golden precept was lost on those youths! Not one, _not one_, drew his knife to “stab the beast to its heart.”

An awful yell of consternation smote upon the air, as the demoralized and panic-stricken boys and girls struggled to escape. The young ladies were too prudent to faint, but they screamed with a voice as shrill and discordant as their brothers’. It fared worst with the little girls, who were jostled about and shoved aside without ceremony. Not a spark of gallantry animated the bosom of those youths; each one strove to save himself, himself only, and took no thought for the weaker and less active girls. Rough and lubberly boys, in their struggle to escape, brutally trod hats and bonnets, books and slates, foot-stools and benches, and school-mates’ toes, under foot. Such commotion had never been known in that school. Suddenly a boy stepped heavily on the dog, and poor Tip howled so lustily that he was heard above all the tumult. This, of course, added to the panic, and a perfect Babel ensued.

Then, with a roar of horror and agony, a bouncing boy cried out that he was bitten!

What wonder that poor Tip should bite, when he was bedewed with grimy tears of honor, yanked this way and that way, stumbled over, jammed against desks, pelted now and then with a stone ink-bottle, and trampled nearly to death?

At length the apartment was cleared of all save a few. As it has been emphatically stated that most of the six were brimming with noble heroism, perhaps it would be better to say nothing about how they behaved. Let the reader imagine how _he_ would behave under similar circumstances.

By the way, it was very rash and foolish in the writer to speak of their bravery at all; and it has cost him (or her) no little annoyance--instance chapter the eighth. In fact, on mature deliberation, the writer recants all that has been said of their bravery.

As Will was tearing out of the room,--it may be remarked incidentally that it happened he was almost the last to do so,--Tip hobbled past him to get out. Quick as thought, Will caught up a heavy chair, and brained him on the spot.

“There,” Will said joyously, “the danger is over now; the dog is dead.” On giving the dog closer examination, he exclaimed, in surprise: “Why, it’s Steve’s dog Tip! Poor Tip! Surely he wasn’t mad!”

Meanwhile, where was the great authority on all things in general, rabid canines in particular? Where was he with his knife?

At the first note of danger, he, being nearest the front-door, had leaped to his feet and ingloriously shown his heels; but not being so familiar with the internal arrangement of the building as he thought, he fell heavily down the four steps of the entry. The fall stunned him, and for a few minutes he lay insensible. Where was the wonderful knife that was to disarm the fury of all mad dogs? Alas! it was safe in his pocket!

Before the learned man could grapple with the situation and gather himself up, the horrified school children were swarming out of the door, and--over him! Awful magnate that he was, not one among them hesitated to make him a stepping-stone in this time of fancied danger. In fact, the next day an immoral boy was heard to say that the professor made a better door-step than speaker; “for,” as he phrased it, “we slid down over him at top speed, and got outside all the sooner.”

As for Teacher Meadows, he had perceived that the peroration was at hand; and when the dog appeared, he was carefully digesting an “extempore” little speech, in which he intended to express his gratitude to the learned man for the very lucid and forcible manner in which the absorbing topic of hydrophobia had been presented to the “students.” But the advent of the dog diverted the train of his thoughts, and his nice little speech was never made. After a vain attempt to stem the hubbub and find where the mad dog was, he followed the example set by the noble speaker, and hurried out of the school; for, though naturally brave, he saw that it was useless to remain.

Although the dog was slain, it was some time before the quaking children could be brought to understand that the danger past, and when at last their fears were quieted, it was found that a great many were missing--among them, the boy who had been bitten. What a startling report they spread in the village about that mad dog! As may be imagined, the strange orator’s name was so much mixed up in their incoherent and “artless” story, that most of the villagers laid all the blame of the affair on him.

Let us return to him, the precept-giving sage, the gifted declaimer. As soon as he recovered himself, and found an opportunity to do so, he made good his escape--without even making his adieux to Teacher Meadows! He reached the depot without molestation; but instead of taking the train for the next seminary, to rant on his darling themes, he took the first train for his home, in Boston.

There he lamented the degeneracy of American youth, and trembled for the integrity of the Union if those boys should ever usurp the right of running the machinery of government.

Now, our wondrous-wise philosopher firmly believed the heart to be the seat of courage. Being aware that he had played the poltroon on the occasion of the struggle with the “mad dog,” he became alarmed about the state of that organ, and consulted one of the most eminent physicians of Boston, who gravely informed him that the left ventricle was affected.

Hence you perceive, gentle reader, that the professor must not be censured for deserting his post as he did; for had his heart been in its normal condition, he would have proved a far more formidable antagonist to Tip than the pugnacious grimalkin.

But Teacher Meadows probably suffered most acutely, and he should be pitied most. Let us return to him. After mustering the remaining school children, he demanded threateningly. “Can any of you throw any light on this mysterious affair?”

There was silence--unbroken, except occasionally, by an hysterical “Ah!” or “Oh!” from some tender and cream-faced child, who still quaked with fear.

Soon Will spoke. “The dog is dead, Mr. Meadows,” he said. “I killed him,” with boyish pride, “and I don’t believe he was mad at all; for he was Stephen Goodfellow’s dog.”

“Oh, the dog is dead? Well, let me see it; where is it?” Mr. Meadows said eagerly.

Will led the way to the place where Tip lay dead, and good Mr. Meadows vainly tried to determine whether the dog had been mad or not. Poor man! he was better versed in Latin verbs than in “lycanthropy.”

“Can any one explain this?” he again demanded. “I never before saw a dog in so pitiable and unnatural a condition, but as to his being mad--” and he stopped short, nodding his head in great perplexity.