Part 4

From time to time Galatea stole a glance at the Artist’s face. It had the composure of a painter whose mind is concentrated on his subject and who feels that he is doing conscientious work. A look of more than admiration came into the girl’s eyes. They grew tender. The nutmeg-grater had dropped from her hand, and she was deaf to the wheedling grunts of Reginald. Presently she seemed troubled, as though dissatisfied with herself.

“Arthur,” she said gently, “I didn’t expect you to do more than make a rough sketch.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Galatea. This is a new and valuable experience to me. I’ve neglected animals. I couldn’t have a better chance than this. Would you mind asking Reginald to turn his face a trifle to the left? There—that’s splendid.”

The girl bit her lip and tapped with her foot on the floor. She even gave Reginald an impatient glance.

“I never realized until now,” said the Artist, as he took a steady look at Reginald’s profile, “how much expression there is in a pig’s face.”

“Indeed?” said Galatea shortly.

“Of course Reginald is an exceptional pig. He has advantages, and associations, which few pigs enjoy.”

A sharp retort leaped to the girl’s lips, but a glance at the Artist’s perfectly serious and preoccupied expression caused her to stifle it.

“I had a horse once,” he went on, as he limned Reginald’s snout with a sure hand, “who actually smiled in the most convincing manner. There was no mistaking it. I suppose that was because I spent so much time with him. After all, it is not so wonderful if domestic animals do acquire traits of some human friend who gains their confidence and their affection.”

Now this was one of Galatea’s favorite arguments. But, strangely enough, the Artist’s endorsement of it in the present situation did not seem to appeal to her. She drew her chair away from Reginald’s, ignoring his reproaches, and asked:—

“Wouldn’t you rather finish your sketch some other time?”

“No; I am ashamed now that I did not accept your suggestion with greater enthusiasm—Look up, Reginald! that’s the idea—in the beginning. That double curve where the jowl meets the neck is different from anything I’ve seen in another subject. Unless you’re tired, I’ll be grateful for four or five minutes longer.”

He had hardly glanced at the girl. Clearly the pig was claiming his whole attention. She turned upon Reginald a look that paralyzed him with amazement, and then addressed the Artist in her softest voice:—

“Do you think your automobile will be safe where you left it, Arthur?”

“Oh, yes, perfectly. Look! the intelligence of Reginald is wonderful. I was just wishing for a more serious expression, and he has already assumed it. Wonderful, really wonderful!”

“If some mischievous boy should tamper with the rubber tires, I should feel to blame,” said Galatea. “There are no boys about here.”

“No danger. Now if you’ll lift that bit of chiffon out of Reginald’s eyes—Oh, you frightened the poor chap!”

Galatea turned her back on the pig. Once more she tried to show her amicable intentions.

“I didn’t quite understand your explanation of your new sparking device, Arthur. Does the spark ignite the gasolene? Or does the gasolene ignite the—”

“Yes, that’s right—Would you mind giving me one look at Reginald with the hat off? I want to be sure about that right ear.”

Galatea snatched the hat off so rudely that the pig squeaked his sense of unmerited rebuke. The Artist drew a few rapid lines and heaved a sigh of satisfaction. He held up the sketch for Galatea’s inspection.

“Do you think it will pass?”

“Magnificent,” she said, barely glancing at it. “Thank you so much. Now, if you must go, I’ll get my hat and walk with you.”

“Oh, will you? It is early. We can turn into that picturesque old wood-road, and you can easily get back before dusk.”

Galatea took the sketch into the house, and presently returned wearing a hat which was merely a fresher copy of the one which the Artist had replaced on Reginald’s ears.

“Shall we invite Reginald to accompany us?” he asked. “He’s been so good.”

Galatea’s indignant surprise nearly betrayed her. She managed to nod assent.

“Come, Reginald,” said the Artist, cheerily.

The pig scrambled down, squeaking his delight, and the odd trio, all at cross-purposes and none aware of it but the girl, passed out through the gate and strolled down the road. Galatea was silent. The Artist glanced at her with a troubled look, but her head was bent and the flapping chiffon thing on her coils of mahogany-colored hair concealed her eyes from his view. The Artist’s star was in the ascendant, but he was the last who would have known it. It was a situation that called for blundering—and the Artist could be trusted to blunder.

“It was good of you to give me that chance with the pig,” he said.

“Reginald!” exclaimed the girl. “Reginald, run home, at once,” and she stamped her foot at the astonished pig.

With plaintive squeaks Reginald obeyed, making his short legs fly back over the road.

They walked on in silence until they had entered the shadows of the wood-road. Suddenly Galatea sat down on a stump, put her handkerchief to her eyes, and began to sob.

“Why, Galatea, what have I done!” The Artist turned pale. “Are you ill? Shall I go for help—for a doctor?”

An emphatic shake from the shapeless chiffon thing.

“Do you want to be alone? Shall I leave you?”

Another shake—and more sobs.

The Artist fell on his knees beside the stump and dared to take her hand.

“Galatea, never in this world could I knowingly give you one moment’s pain. You know how I love you, and I know how hopeless is my love. I shall continue to love you to my dying day, and there is no sacrifice I would not make to see you happy. Tell me, Galatea, how I have offended you.”

She raised her head and looked at him steadily. He wondered that she did not look her displeasure. Instead, there was something in her expression—he could not think what—that made his heart thump.

“Arthur,” she said, “will you do just as I tell you?”

“Only try me, Galatea.”

“Stand out there, in the middle of the road.”

He did so. She rose and faced him at arm’s length.

“In the first place, don’t you dare to interrupt or contradict me.”

He bowed, wondering.

“Arthur, I’m a mean, low, deceitful creature, and I don’t deserve any consideration whatever from anybody. Just now I’ve made up my mind to reform—but that will take time. I want you to come out to see us often and note how I’m getting on. Now, look over your left shoulder.”

He turned his face from her. Quick as a flash she leaned forward, her lips brushed his cheek, and the next instant she had turned and was flying down the road homeward. He stretched out his arms and started in pursuit of her, crying out:—

“Galatea! Stop! Come back!”

Then he remembered her commands, and, seeing that she ran faster than ever, prudently turned his steps in the opposite direction. But he couldn’t feel his feet touch the ground. Yet, in the midst of his tumult of exultation, he was puzzled. Suddenly he smote himself on the chest and exclaimed:—

“Of course. It’s because I had sense enough to be polite to the pig.”

IV _The Obsequies of Bos Nemo_

Not all was gladness and light in the entwined lives of Bos, Equus and Co. There came a day early in July when the confidence of Galatea and the Poet in their four-legged partners was stretched almost to the breaking-point. But for the wisdom of the Poet, which assured him that, after all, civilization is only a thin veneer which is liable to crack open under stress of provocation and reveal the savage man or the unenlightened beast, Mrs. Cowslip and her bull-calf, on that memorable day, would have been condemned to solitary confinement in the barn, while Napoleon, the bull-terrier, would have fallen victim to the flimsiest of circumstantial evidence.

Ordinarily the activities of Bos, Equus and Co. did not have their daily awakening until at least an hour of sunshine had striven with the dew-laden meadow. Gabriel’s duties were light, and rheumatic warnings urged him against braving early damps. Amanda, most energetic of housewives, refrained from disturbing her pots and pans out of regard for the Poet and his sister, who dearly loved that last hour of slumber made more sweet by the chirpings of early birds under their windows.

On this particular morning the dozing Poet was conscious that the voices of the birds were eclipsed by ominous rumblings which, instead of arousing him to complete consciousness, plunged him into the midst of a perilous adventure. He was on the deck of an ocean liner enveloped in the dense fogs of that awesome region off the Banks of Newfoundland. His body and soul were shaken by the vibrations of the siren, whose long-drawn warning was being echoed from out of the mists. No, it was not an echo—it was another siren. Its menace was growing louder! A ghastly gray shape hove near. The officer on the bridge seemed frozen with terror. The relentless ocean, scoffing at sirens and rudders, was hurling two ships into a fatal embrace. The Poet jumped for a life-preserver, striking his head violently upon—upon an old-fashioned walnut bedpost.

Then he realized that it was the melancholy voice of Mrs. Cowslip, interrupted by lamenting bellows from Gustavius, that had so nearly brought him to a watery grave. He ran to the open window, and heard Amanda complaining:

“Gabe, what on earth is the matter with the critters? For the land sakes do git up!”

From his window the Poet could see Mrs. Cowslip and the bull-calf side by side, with their necks stretched out over the barnyard gate, sending forth their lamentations toward the bottom of the pasture, where the brook ran under the stone-wall into a thicket of old willow trees heavily encumbered with wild grapevines. He could hear Cleopatra and Clarence clattering about uneasily on the floor of their stalls, while Reginald squealed for his breakfast with more than his usual insistence, and their neighbors in the hennery cackled inquiringly.

Gabriel was kicking on his boots outside the kitchen door when the Poet and Galatea hurried down, eager to know how they could calm the feelings of their four-legged partners.

“Oh, pshaw!” said Gabriel, seizing a tin milk-pail, “critters are like folks; they have their ornery spells without knowin’ what’s the matter with ’em.”

“I never saw Mrs. Cowslip paw the dust up over her head before,” said Galatea. “See! Now Gustavius is doing it.”

“She’s giving her offspring lessons in some mysterious rites of her species,” said the Poet oracularly. “I shall investigate and make a note of it.”

“No, it’s instinct,” said Gabriel, as the Poet and his sister accompanied him to the barnyard. “You can edicate critters till you’re blue in the face. You can teach ’em to act like human folks almost, and then some day, all of a sudden, they’ll forgit everything and do the same fool things their great-grandmothers did.”

Gabriel entered the barnyard with a three-legged stool, butted his head into the flank of Mrs. Cowslip, and proceeded to play a pleasant tune on the bottom of the tin pail. Gustavius was not distracted by this familiar operation. Suddenly he redoubled his bellowings over the barnyard gate. Mrs. Cowslip wavered between surges of emotion and her respect for Gabriel.

“So, boss,” commanded the man with the half-filled pail between his knees. And then, as Mrs. Cowslip switched her tail in his face: “Stand still, darn ye!”

Such language at such a time was not wise. Mrs. Cowslip, ignoring intervening obstacles, rushed to join Gustavius in a duet of lamentation, leaving Gabriel on his back with the milk-pail overturned into his protesting bosom. He rose, gasping, with arms hanging limp like a man trying to get as far away from his clothes as possible. At that moment Amanda emerged wildly from the hennery, screaming:—

“Gabe! Gabe! They’s only four eggs under the speckled hen!”

“What’s that?” asked Gabriel, startled out of his fury at Mrs. Cowslip, although he could feel streams of warm milk trickling down into his boots. “Only four, Amanda? The hull dozen was there, yesterday. I took the hen off an’ counted ’em.”

They looked at each other as though stunned by a calamity too dreadful for words. Amanda was first to recover her speech. Her eye traveled down Gabriel’s soaking garments to the tin pail bottom up on the ground, and, with the genuine feminine logic which men find so charming in such moments, she said:—

“Gabe, I do believe you’ve spilled all the morning’s milk!”

“No,” drawled the Poet soothingly, “he has it all in his pockets.”

“Hush, George,” said Galatea. And then to Amanda:—

“Were the eggs valuable ones?”

“Valuable!” exclaimed Gabriel. “They was only one settin’ of ’em in th’ hull county. Amanda was crazy for ’em, and so was Si Blodgett, darn the old hypocrite! He and Amanda bid against each other till I had to pay fifty cents apiece for them eggs!”

“Oh dear!” said Galatea. “Then they weren’t hen’s eggs at all?”

“Hen eggs? I should say not. They were Golden Guinea eggs, and no more to be had for love or money.”

Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius lowed dismally, casting dust upon their heads.

“There’s sympathy for you,” observed the Poet. “Never tell me again that a cow lacks intelligence, or a bull-calf perspicacity. Any one can see that they’re bemoaning disaster to those eggs.”

“For the land sakes, Gabe, turn the critters out,” said Amanda.

“No,” said the Poet solemnly, disregarding Galatea’s warnings not to trifle with disaster, “they must be held as witnesses; a crime has been committed.”

Just then Napoleon crawled under the fence, lifted one front paw, cocked one ear, and looked inquiringly in the face of the dripping Gabriel. Amanda seemed startled by a sudden suspicion.

“Gabe,” she said, “do you suppose the dog—”

“I’ll settle that in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” said Gabriel, who had already divined Amanda’s suspicion.

He took the whimpering terrier by the collar and dragged him toward the gate.

“Wait a bit; not so fast,” said the Poet. “Where’s your evidence against Napoleon?”

Gabriel pointed to certain yellow stains about the terrier’s muzzle.

“That’s egg—Golden Guinea egg at fifty cents apiece. Open the gate, Mandy.”

“What are you going to do?” demanded the Poet. “You can’t condemn and execute a member of the firm of Bos, Equus and Co. on one little bit of circumstantial evidence.”

“No, indeed not,” said Galatea.

“But I can give him the third degree, darn him, an’ make him confess,” declared Gabriel, who, as constable of the township, had taken pains to post himself on the latest police methods.

The suspected criminal, his accusers, and his two champions, proceeded to the hennery and to the nest of the incubating speckled hen, amid a chorus of cackling inquiries. Straight up to the ravished nest Napoleon was led. The speckled hen pecked him sharply on the nose. Napoleon yelped.

“There!” exclaimed Galatea. “It’s perfectly plain that the hen could defend herself against a small dog like Napoleon.”

“Lift her off the nest,” said Gabriel.

The speckled hen squawked, but Amanda was firm. Galatea lifted up the terrier and rubbed his nose in the nest.

“What did I tell ye?” said Gabriel in triumph. “D’ye see the guilty look in his face?”

“It isn’t guilt,” declared Galatea hotly; “it’s reproach—reproach for your unjust suspicions.”

“It’s righteous indignation,” said the Poet.

“It’s guilt,” said Amanda, restoring the hen to her four eggs. “When a dog has been stealin’ eggs, an’ you rub his nose in the nest, he always looks that way.”

“Besides, there’s the yaller on his nose,” said Gabriel. “Napoleon, you’re goin’ to git th’ lickin’ of your lifetime.”

“Wait,” said Galatea. “That’s yellow paint on Napoleon’s nose. I repainted some croquet balls yesterday, and he’s been playing with them.”

“Ah,” said the Poet, “think of all the innocent men who have been hanged on circumstantial evidence.”

“It’s egg,” said Gabriel stubbornly.

“It’s paint,” said Galatea. “Gabriel, don’t you dare punish Napoleon.”

“At least it’s a case for the experts,” observed the Poet. “We must have a chemical analysis of Napoleon’s nose before he can be convicted.”

“Gosh!” said Gabriel, “what a lot of fuss all on account of a dog.”

“You forget,” said Galatea. “Napoleon is a member of our family; we’re all on terms of equality here.”

During this argument for and against the guilt of Napoleon, Clarence, with his head through a small window in the wall which separated his stall from the hennery, had been an interested spectator. As though to indicate his approval of Galatea’s last remark, he bared his teeth and nipped Gabriel sharply in the region of his hip pocket.

“Ouch!” said Gabriel.

“One more witness for the defense,” said the Poet. “Hello, what’s this?”

A ragged-edged square of dark woolen cloth, with a blue stripe, hung from a rusty nail in the ledge of the window through which Clarence had withdrawn his head in dodging a slap from Gabriel.

“Behold!” said the Poet, displaying the bit of cloth, which was about the size of a man’s hand. “Behold proof of Napoleon’s innocence!”

“How d’ye make that out?” demanded Gabriel.

“By the process known as inductive reasoning; the same kind of reasoning which enabled Edgar Allan Poe to solve the Nassau Street murder mystery after the police had given it up. It is perfectly plain that the thief who stole those eight expensive eggs wore trousers of the same pattern as this bit of cloth. In taking the eggs from the nest he stood where you were standing, Gabriel, when Clarence nipped you. The speckled hen was not to be ravished of her eggs without a struggle. She pecked and she squawked. Clarence heard her and flew to the rescue. He put his head through the window, as he did just now, and he nipped the thief just as he nipped you, Gabriel—that is, in the region of the hip pocket. Only in this case Clarence knew that he was dealing with a violator of the law, and he nipped deep. His teeth tore away and hung upon that waiting nail the clue which will one day convict the criminal. Look for the man whose dark, blue-striped trousers have a patch over or near the hip pocket. How strange are the ways of justice!”

“Well, I swan to man!” said Gabriel.

Amanda was twisting the corners of her apron nervously. Gabriel gave her a stern glance.

“Mandy, have you been losin’ any more keys of the henhouse?”

“I missed one yesterday,” said Amanda meekly. “Maybe I left it in the lock, havin’ my hands full of fresh eggs.”

Gabriel snorted. He released Napoleon, who ran to Galatea for consolation, and got it; and then the court adjourned to the barnyard, where Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius were still lamenting.

“I suggest,” said the Poet, “that, as the case is tolerably clear against the man with the blue-striped trousers, we excuse these somewhat doubtful witnesses, who seem to have troubles of their own.”

Thereupon all the four-legged members of Bos, Equus and Co. were turned loose, and the two-legged members repaired to the house in search of their belated breakfast.

During the next hour the agony of mind displayed by Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius was somewhat eased by the fresh flavor of the dew-washed grass with which they set about restoring the rotundity of their sleek bodies. But they grazed always in the direction of the stone fence where the brook ran under it, and ever and anon they lifted up their half-filled mouths and mourned as eloquently as could be expected of a cow and a bull-calf in such circumstances.

William, he of the big horns and whiskers, who was similarly employed,—there being no succulent sheets or pillow-slips left out to bleach at so early an hour,—regarded his melancholy companions with a coldly critical eye. Reginald could be heard grunting thankfully among the artichokes. It was Cleopatra and Clarence who, alone, had sufficient good breeding to accompany their morning repast with amiable conversation.

“Mother,” the colt was saying, “what do you make of the extraordinary conduct of Mrs. Cowslip and her offspring? Is it colic, or is the weather going to change?”

“My son,” replied Cleopatra between nibbles, “when you have lived as long as I have, you will cease all attempts to discover the motives which actuate the cow kind. Beings of that species have no intelligence. They have only a sort of blind instinct and an emotional capacity which stamps them as primitive in the extreme, and therefore unworthy to associate on equal terms with our highly intellectual race.”

Clarence turned this chunk of wisdom over in his mind several times, and, being unable to assimilate it, observed:—

“I overheard Mrs. Cowslip saying something to Gustavius about smelling death in the air this morning. I at once counted noses, and none of the family was missing.”

“That reminds me, my son, that the cow kind have a strange custom which probably dates back to some prehistoric ancestor as superstitious and unphilosophic as themselves. I refer to their custom of holding unseemly ceremonies over their dead. I remember once—”

“But, mother,” interrupted Clarence,—for the colt was young and Cleopatra was an indulgent parent,—“there are none of the cow kind in our family except Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius. You can see for yourself that they are both alive.”

“Haven’t I told you, my son, that out in the great world beyond the stone fence—which you may visit some day when you are older—there are many families like ours, including the cow kind?”

“Now I understand, mother; perhaps some Gustavius of the great world beyond the stone fence has met with a violent death, and our Gustavius and his mother feel some intimation of it in the breeze which comes from that direction.”

“My son,” said Cleopatra, with a proud glance at her offspring, “I see daily evidences that the development of your intelligence does credit to my teaching. Doubtless you have hit upon the right solution of this mystery. Observe: Mrs. Cowslip and her son, as they graze, proceed steadily in the direction of the stone fence. It would not surprise me if you should soon see with your own eyes some such ceremony as I have mentioned.”

Cleopatra and Clarence continued their nibbling in silence, while each kept one speculative eye upon the comrades whom they considered so far beneath them. William evidently had pleasurable anticipations, also, for he postponed his usual morning observation of the surrounding country from the woodshed roof. Presently he was observed to rear his horns aloft and stamp one foot menacingly.

“Look at that fool goat, mother,” said Clarence. “He’s forever looking for trouble.”

Cleopatra raised her head and looked off down the road. Then she went on quietly nibbling.

“Can you see anything, mother?” asked Clarence, who was thrilling with curiosity.

“Nothing, my son—nothing but that strange young man in the buggy that runs without my assistance.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed the colt, kicking up his heels gleefully. “Now we’ll have fun.”

“No, my son, the uncanny thing is beneath our notice.”

Clarence looked at his mother in astonishment.

“The other time that evil-smelling red thing came swooping into our front yard,” he said, “you kicked two ribs out of it because you said it was a menace to our means of livelihood.”

“Hush, my son. Were they not compelled, after all, to rely on my services to get the thing off the premises? With a slight injury it had no more life in it than an ordinary buggy. I thought of this while I was dragging the clumsy affair to the blacksmith shop. No, my son, that sputtering red thing with the shocking bad breath is a false alarm. Our occupation is safe.”