It was said with quite a softening of Timothy’s big voice, as he gently lifted them for the burial. Billy and Bob sat apart, silent and abject, their hands in their pockets and scowls upon their brows. But they rose and followed Timothy as he advanced to the cemetery, bearing a puppy in each hand. Few remarks were made until they were returning to the barn, when Bob said:
“Brace up, Billy. Four’s a better number than seven. You would have found seven a big family on your hands. I’ve always noticed a difference in their constitutions. Those two never had as much strength as the others.”
“Do you think the others will come on?” Billy asked, timidly.
“I do,” said Bob. “They’re robust compared to the others; and they’ve eaten quite a lot to-day. I shouldn’t wonder if their eyes would be open by morning.”
Billy was only too glad to hope again, and went home to dream of a gallant quartette, in spite of Timothy’s parting words:
“Very mongrel, Billy, and no constitution. The sooner you put an end to ’em, the better for all parties.”
Timothy having spoken, went immediately to the kitchen, where he confided to cook the whole tragic tale, and said he had heard how oatmeal porridge was nourishing for young puppies; “and suppose you make us a little, Eliza, with not too much oatmeal and a plenty of milk, so ’s ’t’ll go down easy.”
Later, Timothy might have been seen, by the light of a lantern, kneeling upon the hay, feeding the puppies porridge, which he promised would give them “sound sleep with something on their stomachs,” and save them perhaps from being dead puppies in the morning.
Although Billy dreamed his brave dreams of an unbroken quartette, still he stepped into the barn with some anxiety the next morning. But the oatmeal porridge had proved popular; the puppies took it with little urging, and even learned to smell their way into its neighborhood. It did not make them strong and sprightly; it did not open their eyes; but it kept them from dying, and surely this was not a small thing to accomplish. The very fact that three days went by and no death occurred in the family, encouraged them all to hope that a stronger tide of life would soon set in, forcing eyes open and making legs frisky. But when three other days had dragged along, Timothy, in a moment of impatience declared that their eyes would never open.
“A blind dog is sure no good,” said he; “and mongrel as they are, you’ll drop ’em in the river, if you take my advice, Billy.”