“Tiger must have been watching near, for Mamma, sitting in her room, was startled by a heavy knocking at her door, and opening it, found old Tiger, leaping about as if to show his joy; but when she stooped to fondle him, he impatiently broke from her and started for the hall-door, looking back to see if she followed, and if she stopped, he pulled her dress, and seemed imploring. Suddenly Mamma remembered she had seen from her window Kit and Larry going toward the shore with their gayly-painted ship. Just then her eye caught sight of the tiny vessel wrecked on a small rock, a little way out, but her heart sank as she saw no trace, heard no sound of the little captains.
“Presently she saw Tiger plunge down a steep bank, and following his lead, found poor Kit lying insensible on the shore, covered with blood.
“Your aunt lifted the boy’s head upon her lap, and bathed it with cold water, then looked about in hope some one might be on the shore whom she might hail to come and help her. No one was in sight; then suddenly came the thought, as she noticed Tiger whining and pulling at the boy’s jacket.
“‘Why, Tiger is of the St. Bernard breed—dogs trained to carry on their backs travellers exhausted in their efforts to cross the snowy Alps—I will try to make him of use.’
“The dog stood perfectly quiet whilst she laid the boy upon his back, and then off they started, Tiger walking slowly along the shore till he came to a gentle slope of the bank, and then he turned toward home.
“At the door stood the pony-cart, with Jem and his sisters, just returned from the village; so pony’s head was instantly turned toward Bristol to summon Dr. Jones and myself.
“In the confusion, Tiger was for a moment forgotten, and when remembered, the most careful search could not reveal his whereabouts. He still visits the lane, and thrusts his nose through the bars, or follows the children to the shore, but no amount of coaxing can persuade him to come into the lawn.”
As Mr. Harwood finished his account of Tiger’s disappearance, a rattling of wheels on the gravel road was heard, and from behind the house appeared a most distressed-looking old man, with slouched hat drawn over his eyes, and coat and pants hanging in tatters about him, dragging a wagon in which was seated an immense gray cat, with a dark-brown tail dragging over the wagon’s back. Upon her head was a broad-frilled cap, and green goggles hid her eyes. The old cat bowed, first on one side, and then on the other, waving as she did so a lighted torch she held in her hand.
The man halted in the centre of the lawn, and sang, with cracked voice, a few verses of a comic song, and suddenly ended with a loud “Ha! ha!” and jumped right over pussy-cat, wagon, and lighted torch. Then came such a whizzing, buzzing, crackling, and banging, as is seldom heard either side of the Fourth of July, whilst the old man dashed wildly about, showers of sparks flying in all directions from his coat and hat.