CHAPTER VII

THE WOMAN BY THE RIVER

As all travelled dogs know, Riverside Drive, which I claim is the loveliest stretch of avenue in New York, has, at intervals, a sunburst of a park. Those strips of park are delicious for my race. Did you ever notice a sober, city dog trotting behind his master till an open square is reached? If he is a normal dog, his legs begin to dance, and he begs permission to have a scamper.

Some of these little fool-dog creations that have been inbred till they are nothing but a stomach with a little skin wrapped round it, have, of course, no natural impulse left, but I insist that any dog with a remnant of real dog left in him, adores the open. We get this love of liberty from our wolf and dingo ancestors.

Well, as I trotted behind and before, and encircled and interwove master, better than any skirt dancer could have done, I heard presently a wailing in front of us.

We soon came up with the wailer--a dirty, pretty child about four years of age, dragged by the arm by a sullen, slatternly woman who looked about as much out of place on Riverside Drive as master would have looked in Gringo’s saloon.

The woman was tired and ugly, and the child was discouraged and weary. Poor little imp--I can see his bare legs now, looking cold and fiery in the nipping night air.

Master followed behind the woman, biting his lip, and trying to hold himself back, but he couldn’t.

At last, when a jerk more forcible than any before made the little wanderer burst into heartsore weeping, something gave way in master, and he strode after the woman.

He held his hat in his hand, and I could see the perspiration glistening on his forehead.

The child turned his poor, little, tear-stained face over his shoulder.

Master held out both his hands, “Oh! give him to me!” he said in a dreadful voice.

Now I knew one reason at least, why he was not happy. He wanted a little child of his own.

The awful looking woman turned, and confronted him like an angry, hissing snake.

“Not much,” she just spat at him, and taking the child in her arms, she kissed it and comforted it, and went on her weary way.

“Would you kidnap all I’ve got left?” she said savagely over her shoulder.

Master’s hands dropped to his sides. His face looked like the moon when it burst through the clouds.

“So you love it,” he said in a delicious voice.

“Love it,” she croaked, then she said some emphatic words that didn’t hurt me nor my master, and which are not necessary to repeat.

“I’m drug out,” she said, after we’d followed her for a few steps.

“Stop,” said my master, and he took the child from her and swung it up to the stone wall, and stood staring into his little face, so happy now because his mother had comforted him.

“What are you doing up here?” he asked the woman, without looking at her.

She sank down on the ground, just like a dog.

“I came up to see a janitor in one of those big houses,” she said, “he used to be a pal of mine, but he’s moved. If he’d been there, I’d got a car fare and some grub.”

Master didn’t ask her story. It was written all over her. “Would you work in a laundry?” he asked presently.

“Who’d take me?” she said sneeringly. “Look at that, for dirt,” and she held up a bit of her horrible dress.

“My laundry would,” he said dryly.

“You ain’t got a laundry,” she said quickly, and she shot a glance up at him from her bleared eyes.

“Yes I have--here’s the address,” and he thrust a card in her hand.

“Read it,” she said drearily. “I ain’t got my specks.”

“Good Heaven,” muttered my master, casting her a reluctant glance. “Not much over twenty, and senile decay.”

As if understanding him, she murmured, “You had good feed when you was a kid. I was stuffed from swill cans, and treated to tasty bits from the dumps.”

A shudder ran over my master. “Don’t you write no country name,” she said with feeble wrath. “I’ll not leave this little old New York agin.”

“It’s ’way down town,” he said shortly, as he handed her the card, “and here’s car fare. Mind, no drink on the way.”

“I’m too beat out,” she said, struggling to her feet. “I’ve heard of you. You’re the odd fellow that runs that place for the likes of us, an’ ain’t too partickler about rules. I’ll go in, for I’ve wanted to get in, but didn’t know how, and I’ll stay till I die, and go to nobody knows where. That’ll be soon, an’ you kin have him”--and she nodded toward the child.

Master turned to leave her. “Stop,” she said in her husky voice, “I’m goin’ to wish somethin’ on you.” Then she looked up at the moon. “He ain’t got a kid of his own,” she said softly, “I know by the look in his eyes. Send him one, Mrs. Moon, you’re the only mother I know.”

As if afraid he would thank her, she held her child tight to her, and shuffled off toward Broadway.

Master stared after her for a long time, then he muttered, “That’s the second time I’ve been blessed to-night. Queer, isn’t it, dog?--Now, as that child must have a warm welcome at the laundry, let’s go telephone before we get home. We don’t want our right hand to know too much about the left hand.”