CHAPTER XVII

THE ARRIVAL OF THE TWINS

Two years have passed away since I wrote the first part of the story of my life--two whole years, but they seem like ten, for so much has happened in them, and so many changes have taken place in me, that I feel like a different dog.

I have changed, human beings have changed, the whole world has changed, for that terrible blasting war in Europe is over. I thought when it was done, that master would stop looking grave when he read the papers, and mistress would stop crying over the woes of the suffering babies and children, but they look and act worse than ever.

It’s the readjustment master often says--the horrible setting in order of countries disordered by crimes of the worst species.

Sometimes he takes his little boy in his arms, and says, “George Washington, I had rather have you die now, than see you live to grow up and shed the blood of a fellow-man.”

I don’t think there is any danger of George Washington ever killing any one. He is the fattest, sweetest, dearest specimen of a boy baby I ever saw. He has no temper, as cute little Cyria has. He jabbers baby-talk, and plays with us dogs, and never hurts one of us.

I heard master say the other day that he had no liking for a man who never changes his opinion, and I believe that saying is true with regard to dogs as well as men. I never used to like babies. Why? I never cultivated them. I love them now, because I study them, and it is one of the pleasures of my life to note the astonishing developments and differences, between the rapidly growing and changing Cyria, and little George.

Sometimes they bother me, but who has not trouble? A dog that dreams through life, lives in a back yard away out of sight, nobody notices or cares for. You’re bound to have a scrap occasionally, if you come out to the light.

I never liked living in a back yard, but I used to run like a greyhound from disagreeable things, and seek pleasant ones, and it kept me always on the jump. Now I have made up my mind to stay by this family, no matter what happens to them. There is great happiness in an accepted family. I notice some human beings are always trying to get away from their home environment, and many times it is with them as it is with me--it keeps them on the trot all the time.

I don’t want any one to think that I imagine I have become a perfect dog. Good gracious, no! I am just a good, plain, American every-day sort of a dog. I have no illusions about myself, or my owners. I want to do my duty in the dog walk of life to which I am called. I’ll go round a block to attend to my business and avoid a fight, but if trouble meets me the other side of the block, I’ll not dodge it, but I’ll grip it by the throat and try to down it. If it downs me, I’ll get up and shake myself, and hope for better luck next time. To keep myself humble, I often say, “Great Cerberus! what a fool I am, but still not half so much of a fool as I used to be.”

Another most important opinion I’ve changed, is that the city is a better place to live in than the country. How could I ever have made such a mistake? I’m a country dog, now and forevermore, and all my dog set has gone over with me. The country to live in--the city to visit.

You ought to hear old Gringo on the subject. “’Pon my word, Boy,” he often says when we gossip together, “I never dreamed that an old Bowery dog would get so stuck on green grass and blue sky.”

The Bonstones live right under a long and beautiful eminence called Green Hill. Their big, bare house spreads out like a barn under the hill slope. They haven’t one thing in that house they could do without. They have no carpets nor stuffed furniture, no draperies at windows, just plain shades, and their floors are of some smooth, shiny tiles that can be flooded with a hose, and the water runs down and waters window boxes on the floor below. They haven’t a table cloth in the house, but they have lovely things to eat on tables of finely polished wood, and they have plenty of big, soft cushions and comfortable wicker chairs, and many floor rugs that can be lifted easily and taken out-of-doors.

It’s the most sanitary house I ever saw, and Mrs. Bonstone says it reminds her of a hospital. However, she does not complain. She says that a little while after she was married, when she found her husband wanted to come to the country, she said, “It’s the man’s right to choose the place of domicile, and here’s one woman that will let her man go further than that, for he may build the house, and furnish it too.”

Everybody says it is an ugly house, and yet I notice everybody likes to visit it, and sit by the big jolly fires in winter, or loll on the spacious verandas in summer, and partake of the fine meals that are served in the dining-room.

All the jewelry and silver were banished from the house long ago--they were sold for the benefit of the unemployed, and Mr. and Mrs. Bonstone wear a sporting sort of clothes, and a handsome couple they are. He has got quite brown, and she has a magnificent colour from being so much in the open air. She hasn’t any bric-a-brac to look after, nor fol-de-rols such as most women have, and even the servants are out a great deal, for the Bonstones install in their house every labour-saving device that is put on the market.

Cyria is a little beauty, and browner than ever, but not foreign-looking. Strangers always think she is the Bonstones’ own child. Six months ago, every one said her nose would be put out of joint but it wasn’t. It is straighter than ever.

I shall never forget that wonderful event. Good old Gringo, who has matured wonderfully since coming here, and who has also seemed to grow younger, for he has lost his rheumatism because he takes more exercise, came over to our house one drowsy summer day just gasping and panting with excitement. He is always going about here with his double shuffle gait. He has no health commissioner, and no policeman nor muzzle to worry him.

“What’s up?” I asked, blinking at him sleepily.

“We’re ahead of you,” the good old dog snorted--“you’ve got one baby only. We have three.”

“Not triplets,” I gasped.

The old dog gave me a look. “Of course not, though if it had been triplets, it would have been all right. We’ve got twins, Boy, but Cyria counts in. She’s our baby, too. Come on over--come on over and see them. We’ve all got rats in the garret over them. We’re crazy, crazy, crazy--just think--two babies.”

“Boys or girls?”

“One of each, of course,” he exclaimed, his square face alight with pride. “Come on, double quick.”

I capered back with him--it almost kills me to see him run--bull-dogs weren’t built for grace. Of course, I saw nothing of the babies, but we listened under the window, and occasionally heard little faint peeps like young birds.

“Look at mister walking in the blue garden,” gurgled Gringo. “Wouldn’t you think he was tramping on wool?”

The blue garden was full of blue flowers of different shades, and rocks, and rills, and rustic seats and arbours. It was a delicious spot, and very æsthetic.

Mr. Bonstone certainly didn’t look blue. He was walking to and fro quite quickly, in spite of the heat, and occasionally he lifted his eyes to the sky.

“Doesn’t know whether he’s on his head or his heels,” whispered Gringo.

Suddenly the man stooped down, and picked a bachelor’s button to put in his coat. Then with a broad smile, he picked another, and put beside it.

“Remembers he’s got to run double,” said Gringo gleefully. “Believe me, I’m happy for mister.”

“What are you going to call your babies?” I enquired. “You’ll never get such a good name as George Washington.”

“We had only one ready,” said Gringo, “that was John. I guess mister will settle on Mary for the girl, if missis don’t object.”

“Well,” I said, “you’re pretty close to us. John and Mary are two of the oldest and best of names. Nothing fancy about them.”

“Mister wants them to be good,” said Gringo. “He says nothing else counts, if you haven’t got that rock-bottom character. My! what a training they’ll have. If they don’t want to serve their fellow-men, they’ll have a fight with the missis. She has gone batty on the subject.”

“I hear she even believes in women voting,” I said cautiously.

“She believes in letting men, and women, and children, and animals do everything they blank please, provided they don’t bang into any other men’s, women’s, children’s or animals’ rights. Liberty for her. None of your coop-me-up rules.”

“It’s a good thing she’s got out of that old society, sleep-eat-and-play life,” I said.

“A mighty good thing,” observed Gringo. “She was most dotty.”

“Hist!” I cried, “who’s crying?”

“Little Cyria,” said Gringo, “she’s a regular baby--temper too--but our own.”

Poor little brown girlie--she trotted toward the blue garden, ran up to the abstracted Mr. Bonstone and clasped both his knees. “Oh! Daddy, Daddy, Cyria’s mos’ dead.”

“What’s the matter, baby?” he asked kindly, and sitting down on a rustic bench, he took the child on his lap.

“Thomas’ little boy has been teasin’ me. I wented up to the stable with nurse. The boy said, ‘Feel your nose, little girl----’” and she went on, to choke out her story of despair. The bad boy had said she was only a “’dopted” child, and now there were two babies who were real babies, and she would either be sent away or put in a corner.

She spoke very plainly for a child of little more than three years, for she had been brought up with grown people.

“Oh, Daddy, won’t you love me any more?” she cried. “Won’t you let Cyria sit on your knee?”

“Of course, I will,” he said. “Don’t believe any of this nonsense.”

“But the bad boy said you had only two knees, and where would I go?”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Mr. Bonstone gravely, “we’ll strap an artificial knee on Daddy for one of the babies--the boy for example. My right knee belongs to you, my first little girl.”

“Daddy, what’s a ’dopted baby?” she asked pitifully.

“A ’dopted baby is something a little better than your own baby,” said Mr. Bonstone.

The child suddenly threw her arms round his neck. “Daddy, you is sweeter than the roses.”

Mr. Bonstone kissed her very affectionately, then he said, “Come, see the new babies. You must choose one for your own, and I will choose one.”

“I want the girlie,” said Cyria.

“Very well, you shall have Mary.”

“An’ she must go seepie in my beddie.”

“Possibly later, but not just now,” said her adopted father; then he took her away in the house.

“Nice man, that,” I said.

“Rather,” observed Gringo wisely, and with an eloquent shake of his square head.

“Gringo,” I said, “I hear that old Mrs. Resterton is coming out here.”

“She arrived to-day,” replied Gringo. “She stood that big house in New York as long as she could. She thought she was in heaven when the boss let her run it, and she had what she’s been, longing for--that is, lots of dough. But she isn’t as smart as little missie, her granddaughter, and she found that though her place was just as firm in sassiety----”

“Society, Gringo,” I said. “You never do pronounce that right.”

“So-ciety then,” continued the old dog. “She was as strong in it as Grant’s tomb, but the butterfly world fluttered by, when she no longer had her gamesome wasp. So she wrote mister. I thought he’d smother laughing. He took the letter out to the orchard, for the old lady didn’t want missis to know. She said in it everything she didn’t mean, but mister read between the lines. She missed her granddaughter Stanna, and her great-granddaughter Cyria----”

“I like that,” I said, “when she fought so against the child’s adoption.”

“Oh! forget that,” said Gringo, “anyway, she wanted to come live here, and he let her come, and he’s going to sell the house, and make a big figure on it for an apartment-house site, and he’s going to get a coupé for her to run about in, and have all the old ladies she wants.”

“She’ll be agreeable, won’t she?” I asked anxiously, for I hated to hear of anything clouding the Bonstones’ lovely home life.

“Agreeable, yes. She’s a comely old dear. Everybody likes her. She minces round in her black silk, poking her aristocratic old nose into everything, but who cares? The servants favour her, and the missis pets her like a baby.”

“But Master Carty,” I said, “I do hope he isn’t coming.”

“He’s got to,” said Gringo uneasily, “as his home with his grandmother is broken up.”

“There’s your snag,” I said.

Gringo looked gloomy. “You bet--the young rap tipples all the time. The women can’t stop him.”

“Maybe country life will.”

“Maybe,” said the good old dog, “but I’ve seen many lads going Carty’s way. I’ll tell you what mister will do. He’ll give him a good fair showing, then if he doesn’t make good, he’ll kick him out.”

“But what about the women?” I said.

“The women,” exclaimed Gringo with suppressed rage, “I’m tired of this drink-martyr’s business. The men have all the fun, the women all the pain. Every time that young rapscallion comes out here, missis sneaks up to his room to feel his coat pockets, and search his suit-case, to find out if he’s brought any of the powerful, and if she finds it, she cries, and pours out half and puts water in, and if a caller comes, down she goes, smiling as if she hadn’t a trouble in the world. I’d like to chuck all the drunkards in New York Bay with a rock on their necks.”

“Come, come, Gringo,” I said, “that doesn’t sound like you. Can’t you think of a way to reform the poor wretches?”

“Nothing but shut off the liquor,” said Gringo.

I burst out laughing. “How you have changed, old fellow. You used to be for high license, drink in moderation, self-restraint, etc.”

“It doesn’t work with sap-heads,” said Gringo. “I’m for drowning now. Do you know what missis did--had that fellow put over her head.”

“You mean his bed-room--when he comes out to visit?”

“Yes--so she could listen for his step. When it’s steady, she is gay. When he stumbles, and pushes the furniture round, she is sad.”

“I shouldn’t think your master would have allowed that,” I said angrily. “It’s a shame for Mrs. Bonstone to be so bothered.”

“Mister,” exclaimed Gringo, “do you suppose he knows? Not a word of it. Women keep little tricks like that to themselves.”

“Well, I hope he won’t kill her,” I said. “I wish we could do something to help her.”

“Maybe we can,” said Gringo with a knowing air. “Our owners don’t know how much help they get from dogs.”

Old Gringo’s prophecy came true, and in rather a funny way, later on.