Renni the Rescuer (10 page)

George, a bit pale from excitement and nervousness, couldn't say a word.

“I'm going to the tailor's at once,” said Mitya, and, without saying good-bye, started down a side street. Kolya approved. “The boy's our find. We must take care of him.”

“Find?” Vladimir smiled. “That's a funny word, find.”

At home they celebrated the incident like a solemn festival. Mother Marie and Bettina set the tea table, Tanya went for her parents, and soon they were all seated. Manya and Sascha did not honour the occasion with their presence.

The hero of the day was, of course, Renni.

“He is really very remarkable,” Ludmilla admitted graciously.

The dog no longer went near her, and this was probably one reason why she was coming to admire him. Vassili tapped him again with the fingertips of his left hand, murmuring, “You are really wonderful, wonderful beyond belief,” at the same time pushing him away. “Now, now, that's enough. Go now.” And then he rubbed his fingers hard with his handkerchief, exchanging a glance with his indulgently smiling wife.

In silence George drew Renni to his side. The dog sat down on his hind quarters, and George put an arm about him. Ludmilla watched through her lorgnette.

“I suppose you're feeling very proud of yourself now.” George only shook his head in a puzzled way.

Tanya laughed. “One can be happy without being conceited.”

And Vladimir said quizzically, “The dog's the only one who has reason to be stuck up, and he's just glad.”

“Vassili, they're making out I'm rude,” cried Ludmilla with a sort of wail, very much upset.

“You are mistaken, Millie.” Vassili looked around with a rebuke in his glance, but his tone was solemnly mild. “Which of the children would, dear?”

Tanya and Vladimir put their denial into action. They rushed upon their mother, to hug and kiss her, smother her with caresses, call her endearing names, until Ludmilla, satisfied but quite out of breath, began to smile. She asked Bettina to bring her a glass of water, thanked her prettily, and even called her “my dear.”

As a matter of fact, Ludmilla was a spoiled child
who would graciously swallow any amount of flattery. She had a grand opinion of herself, and was utterly naïve about it. She was as boundless in her claims on others as she was in her arrogance. But still she had charm. George had noticed it at once and had agreed with his mother when she said, “Oh, that Ludmilla! I'm so fond of her I can't resist her.”

George had added, “That's just the way with me. Her children really love her wholeheartedly, but still they see through her. It is love without illusion.”

The talk around the tea table veered back to Renni.

“All you need now is to go on repeating the same routine with him, so he won't get out of practice,” said Mother Marie.

“You're right, but we've got to have strangers for him to go after.”

Mitya reported on his visit to Rupert's father. The old man had not been at all frightened over his boy, but instead rather angry, and he had not calmed down till Mitya had engaged his two grown sons, Andrew and Rolf, to play “wounded” for a modest wage.

Mother Fifer, an angular, cross-grained person, had said, “Well, getting good pay with no work ought to suit you perfectly, you lazybones.” She refused to go to the hospital. “Oh, rubbish! That Rupert! The rascal will be coming home as soon as he can limp again.”

So this episode was settled in good order. The two Fifer lads played wounded with much dramatic talent. One day Bettina's brothers joined in and then they had wounded with a vengeance, so that it put quite a strain on Renni. But he went through with it without getting tired, eagerly and dependably.

At home he was still playful as before, tearing around frantically with Kitty. She would dare him on, spitting and arching her back, or else cuddle up close to his breast, purring contentedly. These diversions Renni seemed to regard as a sort of vacation.

Nemo became more and more solitary, more and more indifferent to all attempts to make friends with him, even to the friendliest words of the family—more dull and unresponsive. Bettina put words to it:

“The poor fellow won't last much longer.”

No one answered. They felt she was telling the truth, but they did not like to agree with her and had not the courage to deny it.

Soon Renni learned to announce the finding of a wounded man without haste or excitement, without barking or pulling at his master's clothes. Merely by stretching out one paw.

“Now I'm sure I can take him along,” said George, who was expecting from one hour to the next to be called up for manœuvres. “Now they'll just have to admit him to the Sanitary Corps.”

Mother Marie, Bettina, Tanya and especially Vladimir, who these days was always in the field or the garden, declared unanimously that there was no possible doubt about Renni's being accepted. Mitya encouraged them still more.

“There'll be many a dog there who can't stand comparison with Renni.” Everyone had confidence in young Mitya's positive judgments.

N
OW GEORGE HAD A TERRIBLE experience. For the first time in his life blind raging anger flamed in his breast. For the first time he felt tempted to a deed of violence.

He had been to see Rupert at the hospital, had found the young fellow free from pain and in the best of humours. Rupert inquired after Renni and said how very eager he was to see him again.

George asked, “Do you go to school?”

“I haven't for a long time,” answered the boy and admitted honestly, “I don't want to study.”

“Well then, what do you want to make of yourself?”

“Any kind of work would suit me if I could only get away from home.”

George said he'd give him a chance to learn gardening. Rupert promised heartily to be industrious, steady, obedient.

On the way home George was planning this poor boy's education, when screams of pain suddenly startled him from his peaceful thoughts. Near by a dog was howling. Clearly he was being beaten with a stick or a whip. It was possible to tell each blow, for with each shriek of pain rose high, mingled with snarls of desperate pleading, and in the short pauses one could hear the low whimpering. George turned the next corner in a run and took in the scene. There stood a man beating a poor spaniel which writhed on the ground at his feet.

“You scoundrel!” George rushed on the man, tore the whip from his uplifted hand and cut him once across
the face. It was a terrible blow. Again George shouted, “You wretch!”

The man lifted both hands to protect his head but made no resistance. He begged, “Don't! Don't!” The trace of the whip was a broad red line across his pale face—the face of a man just awakened.

“How do you like it?” muttered George. “It hurts, doesn't it?”

“Oh, frightfully,” moaned the man, fingering the swollen welt. “But why strike me?”

“Why strike your dog, you scoundrel?” Suddenly George felt the spaniel leap against him, trying to bite him.

“Down, Karo,” commanded his master. Karo dropped at once.

Again George's rage boiled up. “Aren't you ashamed to face your dog? You've just been treating him horribly, and still he tries to protect you.”

“Yes.” The man lowered his head. “Yes. I am ashamed . . . . ” Sobs stifled his voice. He could speak only in jerks. “I am . . . so very . . . so terribly unhappy.”

“Is your dog to blame for that?” George's anger cooled. He looked with curiosity at the pitiful figure before him.

“No,” came the sobbing answer. “No, Karo's not to blame. He only . . . I can't even remember now what caused my outburst. I just meant to give him one blow . . . just one, really. But I got to thinking about her, and . . . something like a madness came over me.”

“Thinking about whom?”

The man was weeping. “About Amalie, about my wife. She
was
my wife. But she ran away from me. She robbed me. All the money I'd saved up.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.”

“Report it to the police, why don't you? Go and have the thief arrested.”

“Impossible,” he whimpered. “She's gone away.”

“Report her.”

“No, I haven't the heart.”

“But you have the heart to beat your friend half to death.”

“My friend?”

“Don't act surprised. You know you have no better, more loyal friend than your poor dog.”

The man was silent for a few seconds; then he sighed, “Yes, that's true.” He knelt down. “Come here, Karo. You're the only friend I've got in the world. I know it. Come. I won't do anything to you.” The spaniel took everything as if he had no will of his own. His master stroked the bruised body, fondled the splendid ears which hung long and silky like curls. “Please forgive me. We're unhappy, you and I. We've both been beaten, but I deserved it, you didn't.”

The dog hesitated and then licked his master's hands and face.

“Is there a man on earth,” asked George, “who if you had mistreated him like that would still be so grateful to you, so gentle?”

“No,” he answered and straightened up. “None. You've showed me my only true friend. I thank you. Even if this spot does burn like fire.” He pointed to his swollen face. “I've no other friend but him.”

“If you're really sorry for what you've done count me your friend,” said George, beginning to feel pity.

“Oh, please, please, don't leave me alone now.”

They went along side by side, at first in silence; then the man began the story of his life. He spoke rapidly, helped by this chance to share his troubles.

He bore the curious name of Antony Flamingo. He was a bookkeeper in a large business house. A year and a half ago he had married, and he had scarcely had a day of peace since. The woman was vain, lazy, possessive; she constantly abused him, constantly demanded expensive luxuries. Because her serious-minded husband was unwilling to give her all his savings—they would hardly have lasted her a year—she had taken the money and cleared out.

“Even my name brought me bad luck. Flamingo. She ridiculed me for it. How can I help what my name is? I hate it.”

“You're wrong. Flamingo is a beautiful name.”

“It came from Spain. My great-great-grandparents were Spanish.”

“Don't hate your fine name. Better hate your horrible wife. That might help you get over it. What's the sense in beating an innocent dog because of a person like that?” George was mounted on his hobby again and galloped off at full speed. Flamingo listened with growing astonishment. When George started in to prove that dogs are incapable of lying, he cried, “That's all my wife ever did—lie.”

George told him what he had accomplished with Renni without a single blow. Flamingo wrung his hands. “I'm a monster.” He bent down over Karo, patting the beautiful head of the still terrified spaniel. “I've treated you terribly, but there won't be any more of that now.” Karo wagged the stump of his tail a little but seemed slow to trust this sudden kindness.

“Here,” said Flamingo. “Here. You take the whip. I don't need it. I'll never touch my dog with it again.”

As he handed the whip over to George, Karo shrank back terrified at the mere gesture.

“No, good old boy, nothing's going to hurt you,” his master encouraged him. “Don't be afraid. Come on. Come here.”

Obedient to the word of command the dog crept quivering under Flamingo's hands and then stood up surprised, reassured, happy merely to be petted.

George told about Karl, about the scene at Vogg's house and how Pasha had refused to be set free but had run after his tyrant out of pure love. Flamingo was now completely convinced and won over. Again he took hold of Karo and again Karo shrank from him.

“You love me, you, even if I have mistreated you. You love me in spite of it, don't you?” He patted the spaniel's back and neck awkwardly; it was easy to see his hand was not used to showing friendship to an animal. “You are true to me and will be true always. Now I know what loyalty is and where to find it.”

When they came to say good-bye the cordial pressure of Flamingo's hand embarrassed George. The sight of the blood-red welt across his face hurt his conscience.

“Forgive me.”

Flamingo was puzzled. “Forgive you? What for?”

“Why, you know, of course,” stammered George.

“Oh, for that. For that I owe you a thousand thanks.”

“You'll change your mind when you look in the mirror.”

“Of course I won't.”

“You'll have every right to.”

“What are you thinking of? You . . . ” He tried to go on speaking, but George interrupted him.

“I'm fearfully sorry. I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I never did anything brutal in my life before. I can't forgive myself for being carried away like that.”