“You mustn't let the dog have all that money,” said Mrs. Murchens then.
“But what's he going to do next?” was all Murchens said.
And for a while the dog sat there, and growled if anyone went near the five pounds. And suddenly he gathered it all up and ran out of the house with the five pounds in his mouth, and went away and put it all in a bank. I don't mean the kind of bank that you may be thinking of: it was a green bank outside the town under a hedge, where a good many rabbits used to come out in the evening; and he burrowed into it and put the five pounds in, just as they do with bones, and covered it all up. Then he ran back to Mr. Murchens' house and curled up on the hearth-rug in the drawing-room and stayed there. You see, he'd sold himself. He'd sold Wichers' dog, as a matter of fact. But then he
was
Wichers' dog.
What the rights of it are I can't make out; and, as it has never been done before, there is nothing to guide one. That is where precedent and custom come in, making a great many things, that would be otherwise horribly complicated, quite easy to deal with. Were it not for precedent I don't know where we should be. And they didn't seem quite to know where they were in Sevenoaks in this particular case. Of course Wichers tried to get back his dog, but the dog stuck to his bargain, and, when Wichers at last traced him, refused to stir from the hearth-rug where he had taken up his new lodgings.
Murchens seemed to take the same view of it as Tim did; and, however critical my hearers may be of his attitude, it must be remembered that he had paid good money for the dog, money that Mrs. Murchens says is too much for any dog, at any rate with all the taxes one has to pay, not to mention rates. I thought for a moment that I heard someone laugh, though how the sound reached me I can't say, but wireless sometimes does queer things. Yet it is no matter for laughter, and Mrs. Murchens is perfectly right; it is a difficult thing to run any house properly nowadays; and if you were to buy things for five pounds and part with them almost immediately, it would be practically impossible.
Murchens stuck to his point, which was that he had bought the dog; and Wichers stuck to his, which was that nobody could sell his dog but himself; and in the end it came before the magistrates. There had been a lot of argument for and against Murchens, with which I will not trouble you; but none of the magistrates had taken any part in it, which is as it should be; and the case was very simply decided, as cases about the ownership of dogs very often are, by the dog himself, who ran joyfully up to Murchens and would not look at Wichers; and the magistrates decided that Tim was clearly Murchens' dog.
There is still nothing in this story to trouble the town of Sevenoaks to its very foundations, though that is what soon occurred. So far it is no more than a slightly unusual story: dogs have begged for sticks, stones, bones, balls, and food before now, though probably not for pound notes; and they have changed owners before. But from now on the unusual definitely colours my story, increasing until
unusual
is hardly the adequate word for it.
The dog ran to his bank and drew out a pound of his money, carefully covering up the hole through which he had drawn it out; and with this he went to a shop that sold collars: not dog-collars; that is the whole point of my story.
4
He bought an ordinary collar, a starched linen collar with ends that turned back, not the kind of collar that I should have chosen myself, but yet an ordinary collar. He bought it by running in with the pound note in his mouth and putting up his paws on the counter, just as he used to when fetching the
Daily Mail,
and then going and yapping at the collar that he could see in the window.
They got the wrong article for him at first, as often happens when you buy a thing from the window; but he went on yapping until they got him the right one, and his joy when they did that was manifested as only a dog can manifest joy, so that there was no doubt whatever that it was the collar he wanted. When they saw that, one of them must needs go and fasten it on for him with one of those little studs that one gets from the laundry, and which cost the shop nothing. And the head man gave him exactly the correct change: he had to do that, with all the assistants watching and taking so much interest in the dog. Though he would have done it in any case: I know him well and he is quite honest.
Change was a thing that the dog had never had before, and it made him all the keener on shopping. He ran back to his bank and deposited it there; and next day he drew out half a crown and was back again at the shop. This time he bought a tie, a green and pink one in stripes, which he was able to do for one and sixpence, and got his shilling change, and was learning all the time more and more about money. The assistant tied the tie for him as neatly as if they had been putting the gaudy thing round one of their own necks for a Bank Holiday; and away the dog went again, put the shilling into the bank, chased a rabbit that was loitering about too close, and went back to his lodgings with Mr. Murchens.
To all appearances he was still an ordinary dog, on whom someone had played a little trick, or had petted fantastically, and nobody as yet took any serious notice. Of course the collar and tie got many a laugh, but evoked no real thought. And then he bought a little walking-stick at a toy-shop. He saw it in the window and went in and played his usual tricks, and bought the thing for a shilling, a little cane about a foot and a half long, with a rather neat handle. Tim got it in his mouth and went down the High Street wearing his collar and tie. And that was when people began to notice something odd.
What was the dog doing, they asked, all on his own with a walking-stick, and that rather natty collar and gaudy tie? Jealousy is too strong a word for it; and there was no jealousy; at any rate not as yet. But people were beginning to ask if those were quite the dress and airs for a dog. And he
was
giving himself airs; there could be no doubt of that: they increased with each little purchase. And then one day he saw a child's waistcoat, if that is the right word for it, in a window. And he bought that too.
There was no doubt now that the dog was gradually dressing himself up: he was gradually breaking down the differences that there ought to be, and that there must be, between ourselves and creatures unthinkably lower. And willing hands were helping him in every shop that he went to. It was no longer a mere matter of a laugh or so in the street; but protests were to be heard in the houses at evening. Some said it was a mere trifle; but the necessary barriers are made of trifles. Some said that these barriers were snobbish; while others said that they were the very walls that held up our civilization.
Days went by while the dog's boastful airs grew more and more lamentable, and Mr. Murchens did nothing. Even taunts failed to move him. “One would think he was one of the family,” said someone to him. But even that drew no action from Mr. Murchens. He seemed to be proud of the dog. And then one day came the incident that has brought it all to a head.
Mr. Slegger, who had been sun-bathing in his garden during the luncheon hour, came away hurriedly to attend to some business at his office. I think the boy had run over from the office to say that the telephone-bell was ringing; but I am not sure. Mr. Slegger had put on his coat and his hat; but the essential point of this episode is that he was not wearing a collar. In this kit he appeared in the High Street, just as Tim was going by. And the dog cut him.
Of course Tim knew Slegger quite well, and had often stopped and wagged his tail in response to the invariable greeting of: “What cheer, Tim,” from Slegger. But on this occasion he would take no notice of Slegger whatever.
The news spread through the town at about the pace of fire in a barn; there were meetings and discussions about it, and the theory that it might be an oversight was tested and dissipated by confronting Tim with another collarless man, with precisely the same result. And that's the situation with him in Sevenoaks now; and if it wasn't in the High Street it might be overlooked; but, being in the High Street, the issues are clear.
In Sevenoaks, and in all the district round, we have felt that we are unquestionably above all that sort of thing; that no equality between ourselves and inferior creations is possible, far less any question of superiority of one of those inferior creations to one of us, though he had a hundred collars and we only a dirty neck.
You might think that the whole town would not support Slegger, whether they knew him or not. You might think that there would be some who would even prefer to laugh at him; but that is not the case, for over everyone in Sevenoaks now falls like a shadow the fear that at any moment he may be cut himself; and no one that has not seen a man being cut by a dog can perhaps quite appreciate the sickening drop that that is to one's self-esteem. An old and comfortable, but untidy, jacket, an unbuttoned waistcoat, a carelessly chosen tie, may at any moment subject a man to this sudden humiliation.
Meanwhile the dog is as dapper and active as ever, and his airs even more insolent, and we are beginning to feel that after all he may be right; for once one's standards have been overthrown, as they were by the cutting of Slegger, it is hard to build them up again by mere logic. If dress conferred on us, we argue, the respectability that it undoubtedly did confer, in conjunction with a balance at the bank, may not these things confer respectability upon others? And when we start arguing like that, we don't know where it will lead us. There is uncertainty in the High Street and widespread uneasiness; and through air that is thick and heavy with our misgivings goes twice a day this over-confident dog. And no one knows what he is going to do next. We saw him looking in at a hat shop lately.
And Murchens will do nothing. Perhaps even now these words of mine may persuade him to take some action, should the ether chance to bring them to his ears. A beating would not be out of place. But it's his dog; that has been settled by the magistrates; and it is for him to decide. Only let us somehow have our old barriers back again. One correction I must make in fairness to Mr. Murchens: it is not entirely true that he will do nothing, for I hear he has promised at last to keep the dog shut up. Let him only do as he says, and the High Street will be again what it always was, a place where one can walk without any loss of dignity. And this may be taken as the end of my story.
I hope such a thing will never occur again. It can very easily be avoided, with all its humiliating consequences, if everyone will only agree, under all circumstances, never to buy a dog except from its owner. As for the facts of the case, you can test all that for yourselves by going to Sevenoaks; where you will probably hear the dog bark, as a dog nearly always does when shut up too long. And you may estimate, if you have the knack of ferreting out such things, how deeply the episode has sunk into the High Street, by the deliberate reticence with which that dog is surrounded. For ask anybody there about the story, or almost anybody, and they will tell you that they know nothing about it whatever.
Poseidon
The sun was slanting towards the Peloponnese when I came to the temple of Poseidon. Its columns by the sheer edge of the land appeared to be absorbing the gold of the sunlight, and almost to be about to turn into golden air. If that was a fancy, it faded when I drew nearer; and when I came to the columns the fancy was gone. Mountains and islands lay in a semicircle round the sea, and were beginning to draw imperceptibly about them the purple cloaks they are wont to wear at evening. When I went into the temple I saw no one there, but after gazing awhile over the sea, I noticed sitting among the weeds a little, quiet, old man. He never spoke a word till I spoke to him; and then, whatever it was that I said, he sighed and told me these days were not like the old days.
“What do you do?” I asked, thinking perhaps he followed some trade which changing times had ruined.
“Nothing now,” he said. “I have retired. I do nothing now.” He sighed and said no more.
“And what used you to do?” I asked.
“Ah,” he said. “Ah, I used to shake the earth. Literally shake it. I used to alarm men living miles inland.”
“Alarm them?” I said.
“Certainly,” he replied. “Nine miles inland, and even further than that. And they used to sacrifice to me in this temple. Bulls. Great numbers of bulls. Fine bulls that bled beautifully. And the very earth shaking while they sacrificed. Those were the days. Those were the days. I used to make storms in those days that shook the very earth.”
“Then you were . . .” I was beginning.
“Certainly I was,” he said. “This is my temple.”
“And they no longer sacrifice to you?” I asked.
“That, certainly, is the case,” he said. “That is the trouble. When they sacrifice again I shall shake the very earth. But men are neglectful and indolent, not like their grandsires. Why, I've seen as many as fifty bulls at one time in this temple.”
“And why don't you shake the earth?” I asked him.
“Well, you can't do much without the blood of bulls,” he said. “You can't expect strength to shake the earth without the blood of bulls. Of course they will sacrifice to me again; probably quite soon, but just now they are indolent and neglectful.”
“But why should they sacrifice to you?” I asked.
“It is their duty,” he said sharply.
And then I did what you should never do when talking of any religion: I tried to argue.
“But usen't they to sacrifice to prevent you shaking the earth?” I asked.
“Certainly,” he replied.
“Then why should they sacrifice to make you strong enough to do it again?” I said.
But the argument got me nowhere. Argument on such subjects never does. He merely lost interest, and as he lost interest he faded; till his outline and face and beard and tattered cloak were little vivider than the evening air. And then a humming-bird hawk-moth came dashing up and hung by a flower upon vibrating wings, and the old god moved away from it. “What is all its hurry about?” I heard him say petulantly. “Why can't it be placid? I never hurry like that. There is no need for it, no need at all.”