The night-watchman reached over and lifted Van out by his collar. At his touch the little hero crumpled up with a piteous whine that went straight to the heart of his rescuer. Then he lay still in the man’s arms.
The night-watchman looked him over and whistled. On his collar he read “Vanart VI.” He did not stop to read more.
“It’s the Boss’s dog, sure. Well, of all the pluck! He must have been here two or three hours. I’m sure I heard something at twelve and at one, but I never dreamed it was inside the building. How he held out against that cow I don’t see. All mothers are fierce when their young is in danger. You certainly have got the grit, young fellow. I make my bow to you.”
He picked up his lantern and was off at a swinging stride toward Dr. Johns’ house. Van lay silent until his breath returned, his heart beat steadier, and his nerves lost their terrible tension. Then his self-respect came to him. He could not bear to be brought home in a man’s arms. Betsy or Mary might tote him around a little, if he were tired or sleepy,—but any one else,—oh, no, indeed!
With a wriggle and a plunge he slipped from the hold of the astonished night-watchman, who stood with his mouth open, watching him disappear through the dark, like a small goblin, in the direction of home.
The man looked after him, and laughed.
“The little tyke’s a sport all right, all right! I sh’d think I’d seen a ghost if I hadn’t had hold of him.”
Betsy lay in her bed, listening for the clear bark that would sound across the lawn sooner or later.
Instead, at the very door of the house she heard a pitiful wail, and she bounded up to let in a trembling creature, a little Prince, with all the princeliness gone out of him; he looked no better than the meanest mongrel that ever lived.
Not until the next day, when the night-watchman told his story, did she know that her Vanny-Boy was a real hero.