Jack, the Fire Dog

by Lily F. Wesselhoeft

The most unpleasant part of this new life was the fact that great care had to be taken in order to keep him out of the way of the father of the family, who did not like dogs. Whenever the children heard their father’s step on the stairs, they always caught Toby up and whisked him into Johnny’s little dark room, where he had to stay, as still as a mouse, so long as the father was in the house. This was easily enough done at night, but in the daytime it was pretty hard for the active little dog to stay quietly in the dark room where there was not even a window to look out of.

The father of the family, who didn’t like dogs, was just the kind of man whom dogs didn’t like any better than he did them. Somehow or other he always found dogs to be in his way. If a dog happened to be taking a nap on the floor or on the sidewalk, instead of stepping to one side so as not to disturb him, he always growled, “It is strange dogs always manage to lie just where they are most in the way.” Or if a dog barked to let people know somebody was coming, he would exclaim, “What a nuisance that dog is with his barking!” In fact, whatever a dog does is considered to be the wrong thing by such people, so it is no wonder that dogs are not fond of them.

Toby had seen the father through a crack of the door and had heard his voice, and he understood just what kind of a man he was, and that it would be safer for him to keep out of his way.

Things went on in this way for almost a week, Toby being always hustled out of sight so soon as the father’s step was heard on the stairs. At last, however, Toby forgot all prudence and betrayed himself.

It was a clear, cold night, and Toby had been taken out by Johnny for a run. The air was so crisp and cold that it was just right for a smart run, and the boy and dog returned with sharp appetites for supper. Toby’s keen little turned-up nose smelt the savory fumes of sausage long before they reached the top story, and he knew that a portion of it would be his—it would be mixed with bread and moistened with hot water and perhaps a little gravy, but Toby knew just how good it would taste. His sense of smell had not deceived him; as they entered the kitchen, there were the sausages still sizzling on the stove and smelling better even than they had at a distance.

“You shall have your share when we are through, little fellow,” said the mother in her kind voice; and Toby knew she would keep her promise, even if she went without any herself.

The table was set, the sausages dished, and the family seated around the table, while Toby watched them with greedy eyes and watering mouth. Suddenly the mother exclaimed,—

“There is Father coming! Run and put the dog out of sight, Johnny; he mustn’t be bothered by him.”

So Johnny caught Toby up in his arms and hustled him off into his dark room. He couldn’t bear to leave the little fellow alone in the dark; so he left the door just ajar, that a crack of light might enter to comfort him.

Toby had heard the step and recognized it long before the mother had, but he didn’t want to leave those tempting sausages. They didn’t come his way every day.