Chapter XXXI.
An addition to the family.
The door to the kitchen was open: Tommy must be in the garden again!
When he reached the nursery, as he called it to himself, he found the
baby as he had left her, but moaning and wailing piteously. She looked
as if she had cried till she was worn out. He threw down the clothes
to take her. A great rat sprang from the bed. On one of the tiny feet
the long thin toes were bleeding and raw. The same instant arose a
loud scampering and scuffling and squealing in the room. Clare's heart
quivered. He thought it was a whole army of rats. He was not a bit
afraid of them himself, but assuredly they were not company for baby!
Already they had smelt food in the house, and come in a swarm! What
was to be done with the little one? If he stayed at home with her, she
must die of hunger; if he left her alone, the rats would eat her! They
had begun already! Oh, that wretch, Tommy! Into the water--but he
should go!
I hope their friends will not take it ill that, all his life after,
Clare felt less kindly disposed toward rats than toward the rest of
the creatures of God.
But things were not nearly so bad as Clare thought: the scuffling came
from quite another cause. It suddenly ceased, and a sharp scream
followed. Clare turned with the baby in his arms. Almost at his feet,
gazing up at him, the rat hanging limp from his jaws, stood the little
castaway mongrel he had seen in the morning, his eyes flaming, and his
tail wagging with wild homage and the delight of presenting the rat to
one he would fain make his master.
"You darling!" cried Clare, and meant the dog this time, not the
baby. The animal dropped the dead rat at his feet, and glared, and
wagged, and looked hunger incarnate, but would not touch the rat until
Clare told him to take it. Then he retired with it to a corner, and
made a rapid meal of it.
He had seen Clare pass the second time, had doubtless noted that now
he carried a loaf, and had followed him in humble hope. Clare was too
much occupied with his own joy to perceive him, else he would
certainly have given him a little peeling or two from the outside of
the bread. But it was decreed that the dog should have the honour of
rendering the first service. Clare was not to do _all_ the
benevolences.
What a happy day it had been for him! It was a day to be remembered
for ever! He had work! he had sixpence a day! he had had a present of
milk for the baby, and two presents of bread--one a small, and one a
large loaf! And now here was a dog! A dog was more than many meals!
The family was four now! A baby, and a dog to take care of the
baby!--It was heavenly!
He made haste and gave his baby what milk and water was left. Then he
washed her poor torn foot, wrapped it in a pillow-case, for he would
not tear anything, and laid her in the bed. Next he cut a good big
crust from the loaf and gave it to the dog, who ate it as if the rat
were nowhere. The rest he put in a drawer. Then he washed his face and
hands--as well as he could without soap. After that, he took the dog,
talked to him a little, laid him on the bed beside the baby and talked
to him again, telling him plainly, and impressing upon him, that his
business was the care of the baby; that he must give himself up to
her; that he must watch and tend, and, if needful, fight for the
little one. When at length he left him, it was evident to Clare, by
the solemnity of the dog's face, that he understood his duty
thoroughly.
