I fell over a low wall, into a passage leading towards some stables. In the course of a few minutes I recovered my sense, but only to experience fresh alarm! A fine large Newfoundland dog, who was just passing, thought somebody had thrown him a broiled bone; so he caught me up in his mouth, and away he ran with me, wagging his tail.
CHAPTER XI
THE PORTRAIT PAINTER
The Newfoundland dog soon found that the smell of my burned clothes and scorched skin was not the same as a broiled bone; and that, in fact, I was not good to eat. But he still continued to hold me in his great, warm, red mouth, because he was used to fetch and carry; and, as he felt no wish to taste me, he thought he would take me, just as I was, to his young mistress, who was not far off. He had merely wandered about Hanover Square to amuse himself, as he knew the neighborhood very well.
The dog ran through the doorway of some private stables into a passage that led into the square; and turning down, first one street, then another, he soon stopped at a door, upon which was written, ‘J. C. Johnson, Portrait Painter.’
The door was shut, but the area gate happened to be open; so down ran the dog into the area, and into the front kitchen, and across that to the stairs, and up the stairs (three flights) till he came to the front room of the second floor, which was ajar, and in he bounced. There sat a little girl and her aunt; and Mr. J. C. Johnson was painting the aunt’s portrait, in a great white turban.
The dog ran at once to the little girl, and laying me at her feet, sprang back a step or two, and began wagging and swishing his tail about, and hanging out a long crimson tongue, and breathing very fast, and waiting to be praised and patted, and called a good dog, for what he had brought.
‘Oh, Nep!’ cried the aunt to the dog, ‘what horrid thing have you brought? Some dirty old bone!’
‘It is an Indian idol, I believe,’ said Mr. Johnson, taking me up from the carpet; ‘an Indian image of ebony, much defaced by time.’
‘I think,’ said the little girl, to whom Mr. Johnson handed me, ‘I think it looks very like a wooden doll, with a burned frock and scorched face.’