“And they are eating their heads off, are they?—and he wants to swap his dirty money for my—Yes—I know. They think they can buy anything with a banknote. And its Floe and Dandy and Sue and Rupert, is it? And I'm to sell them—I who have slept with them and ate with them and hugged them a thousand times. Of course they eat their heads off. Yes—don't say another word. Send them up one at a time—Floe first!”
The scene that followed always lingered in his mind. For days thereafter he could not mention their name, even to Todd, without the tears springing to his eyes.
Up the kitchen flight they tumbled—not one at a time, but all in a scramble, bounding straight at him, slobbering all over his face and hands, their paws scraping his clothes—each trying to climb into his lap—big Gordon setters, all four. He swept them off and ranged them in a row before his arm-chair with their noses flat to the carpet, their brown agate eyes following his every movement.
“Todd says you eat too much, you damned rascals!” he cried in enforced gayety, leaning forward, shaking his finger in their faces. “What the devil do you mean, coming into a gentleman's private apartments and eating him out of house and home!—and that's what you're doing. I'm going to sell you!—do you hear that?—sell you to some stingy curmudgeon who'll starve you to death, and that's what you deserve!... Come here, Floe—you dear old doggie, you—nice Floe!... Here, Dandy—Rupert—Sue!” They were all in his arms, their cold noses snuggled under his warm chin. But this time he didn't care what they did to his clothes—nor what he did to them. He was alone; Todd had gone down to the kitchen—only he and the four companions so dear to his heart. “Come here, you imp of the devil,” he continued, rubbing Floe's ears—he loved her best—pinching her nose until her teeth showed; patting her flanks, crooning over her as a woman would over a child, talking to himself all the time. “I wonder if Floyd will be good to them! If I thought he wouldn't I'd rather starve than—No—I reckon it's all right—he's got plenty of room and plenty of people to look after them.” Then he rose from his chair and drew his hand across his forehead. “Got to sell my dogs, eh? Turned traitor, have you, Mr. Temple, and gone back on your best friends? By God! I wonder what will come next?” He strode across the room, rang for Todd, and bending down loosened a collar from Dandy's neck, on which his own name was engraved, “St. George Wilmot Temple, Esquire.” “Esquire, eh?” he muttered, reading the plate. “What a damned lie! Property of a pauper living on pawnshops and a bill collector! Nice piece of business, St. George—fine record for your blood and breeding! Ah, Todd—that you? Well, take them downstairs and send word to Mr. Floyd's man to call for them to-night, and when you come back I'll have a letter ready for you. Come here, you rascals, and let me hug one or two of you. Good Floe—good doggie.” Then the long-fought choke in his throat strangled him. “Take them away, Todd,” he said in a husky voice, straightening his shoulders as if the better to get his breath, and with a deep indrawn sigh walked slowly into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.
Half an hour later there followed a short note, written on one of his few remaining sheets of English paper, addressed to the new owner, in which he informed that gentleman that he bespoke for his late companions the same care and attention which he had always given them himself, and which they so richly deserved, and which he felt sure they would continue to receive while in the service of his esteemed and honored correspondent. This he sealed in wax and stamped with his crest; and this was duly delivered by Todd—and so the painful incident had come to an end.
The dogs disposed of, there still remained to him another issue to meet—the wages he owed Jemima. Although she had not allowed the subject to pass her lips—not even to Todd—St. George knew that she needed the money—she being a free woman and her earnings her own—not a master's. He had twice before determined to set aside enough money from former cash receipts to liquidate Jemima's debt—once from the proceeds of Gadgem's gun and again from what Floyd paid him for the dogs—but Todd had insisted with such vehemence that he needed it for the marketing, that he had let it go over.
The one remaining object of real value was the famous loving-cup. With this turned into money he would be able to pay Jemima in full. For days he debated the matter with himself, putting the question in a dozen different lights: it was not really HIS cup, but belonged to the family, he being only its custodian; it would reflect on his personal honor if he traded so distinguished a gift—one marking the esteem in which his dead father had been held, etc. Then the round, good-natured face and bent figure of his old stand-by and comfort—who had worked for him and for his father almost all her life—rose before him, she bending over her tubs earning the bread to keep her alive, and with this picture in his mind all his fine-spun theories vanished into thin air. Todd was summoned and thus the last connecting link between the past and present was broken and the precious heirloom turned over to Kirk, the silversmith, who the next day found a purchaser with one of the French secretaries in Washington, a descendant of the marquis.
With the whole of the purchase money in his hands and his mind firmly made up he rang for his servant:
“Come along, Todd—show me where Aunt Jemima lives—it's somewhere down by the market, I hear—I'm going now.”
The darky's face got as near white as his skin would allow: this was the last thing he had expected.