Scamp and I: A Story of City By-Ways

by L. T. Meade

Or, perhaps—and this was a worse and darker thought—perhaps there was no God; perhaps all Mrs Jenks’ talk of yesterday had been just a pretty fable—perhaps wicked Mrs Jenks had been deceiving her all the time! The more Flo considered, the more did she believe this probable.

After all, it was very unlikely that she should have lived so long and never, until yesterday, have heard anything of God and heaven, very unlikely that her mother should have lived her much longer life without knowing of these things! If there was a good time coming, was it likely that her mother should have lived and died without ever hearing of it? Slowly and reluctantly Flo gave up the hope that had brightened and rendered endurable the last four-and-twenty hours. She had no Father in heaven, there was no God! Great sobs broke from the poor little thing, a great agony of grief seemed to rend her very life in two.

She cried her heart out, then again sank into uneasy slumber. All through the long hours of that burning summer day the child lay, now sleeping fitfully, now starting in feverish fright and expectancy. At last, as evening came on, and the air, cooler elsewhere, seemed to grow hotter and hotter in this wretched spot, she started upright, suffering more intense pangs of hunger than she had hitherto known. Be her agony what it might, she must crawl, though on her knees, to the cupboard, where she knew a very old and mouldy crust still was. She rolled herself round off the straw, and then managed to move about two or three feet on the damp floor. But further movement of any description was impossible; the agony of her injured foot was greater than the agony of her hunger; she must stay still—by no possible means could she even get back to her wretched bed. She was past all reasoning or any power of consecutive thought now; she was alive to nothing but her intense bodily suffering. Every nerve ached, every limb burned; her lips were black and parched, her tongue withered in her mouth; what words she uttered in her half-unconsciousness, could hardly be distinguished.

In a much milder degree, it is true, Scamp had also spent an uneasy day—Scamp too had tried to sleep off his great hunger. It was at its height now, as he crouched by Flo’s side on the floor. During the time of his captivity he had been well fed, he had left behind him a large platter of broken meat; since Flo had set him free neither bite nor sup had passed his lips. Hungry in the morning, without doubt he was ravenously hungry now, and being of the genus designated “knowing,” saw clearly that the time had come for him to set his wits to work. As a rule he partook of Flo’s spirit, and was, in truth, an honest dog; but he had a clause in his code of morals which taught him that when no man gave to him, then it would be right for him to help himself.

He had proved the necessity of this rule once or twice in his adventurous life, and had further proved himself a clever and accomplished thief.

He had some butchers’ shops in his mind’s eye now, some tempting butchers’ shops, that he had cunningly noticed when returning home with Flo yesterday.

From those butchers’ stalls hung pork chops, and mutton chops, ready cut, all prepared to be received into his capacious jaws. A leisurely walk down the street, a little daring, a sudden spring, and the prize would be his.

Should he go and satisfy this terrible hunger, and feel comfortable once more? Why did he not go? why did he not at once go?

Why? because he had a heart,—not a human heart, which often, notwithstanding all that is said about it, is cold, and callous, and indifferent enough, but a great faithful dog’s heart. With considerable disquietude he had watched Flo all day. Not for nothing had she lain so still, not for nothing had such piercing moans come from her lips, not for nothing did she look so pale, and drawn, and suffering now. Drooping his ears, bending his head, and frowning deeply, he reflected, in dog-fashion, how Flo too had tasted no meat and drank no water that day.

She too was hungry and in a worse plight than him—it was his bounden duty to provide her with food. What should he bring her? A bone?