“Bear up a little longer,” I said to her. “Imagine you’re one of your big ancestors taught to keep within a short distance of a gun—and listen to a word of advice. The lady of the house is your friend. Pay no attention to the man.”
“I’m glad,” she said faintly. “I’m terrified of all men, since that one has beaten me so much with his cruel whip.”
Oh, how angry I felt. That terrible whip is in evidence even on the stage, for did any one ever see a show of trained animals, without the presence of the scourge in the hands of the master? He doesn’t dare to use it in public, but he shakes it, and the poor dog knows what is coming afterward.
Oh! what a long breath I drew when we passed the floor-to-ceiling mirrors of our hallway—safe at last, and a sorry looking sight. Amarilla’s curls were muddy and torn, for I had had her in vacant lots, among shrubbery, everywhere, to escape the sharp eyes of the policemen. Then her own troubles made her look terribly.
“What a wreck,” she murmured, then she shut her eyes in pain and fatigue, as she dropped to the floor of the elevator.
“So you’ve got a friend,” said the elevator boy with a grin. “You’re a great dog. Never saw your beat.”
When I barked once at the door of our apartment, which was my signal for getting in, I hoped fervently that my master was at home.
Thank fortune, he was. I ran up to him, threw myself across his feet, and panted, for even I, strong as I was, felt rather worn out, but not so much with exertion as with excitement of rescuing my former little friend.
Amarilla, according to instructions, crept timidly to Mrs. Granton’s feet. I never saw anything look more humble than that little dog. She doubled up her little legs so that she seemed to be crawling on her stomach. Her air was humility, sad appeal, and restrained suffering. It was inimitable.