But Jack, who had been, in his humble way, self-willed and extravagant from his cradle, had already parted with more precious possessions than Prince, and it is to be feared would part with still more before his history was ended. Anyhow, he sold Prince for the merest trifle to a hard buyer; and as tears were in Jack’s dull eyes when he closed the bargain, we will dismiss him with the reluctant reflection that, if he or his progenitors had only owned a single germ of noble self-denial, manly, womanly forethought, plucky, cheery diligence, he might not merely have kept the dog—he and his might have been as independent and well-to-do, and risen as far above want, with its terrible temptations, as any of the gentlefolks in the land.
The inducement which Prince’s new master, Mr. Jerry Noakes, had for the purchase, was that he had enjoyed some opportunity of remarking Prince’s tenacity of purpose and literal discharge of a commission, which he was convinced would render the dog a good watch; while Mr. Jerry was satisfied, from Prince present appearance, that he could be put off with as shabby quarters and meagre fare as will suffice to keep a dog in life. In fact, Mr. Jerry Noakes’ principle, which he found to work well for his ends, was—don’t pamper your dependants on any consideration, if you wish them to be of use to you—on the contrary, grind them down to the last extremity, and all that is in them will be stimulated to do battle with the world on their and your account.
Mr. Jerry Noakes owned a small coal-yard—very small and very little frequented, though its possessor was a man of some substance—but he drew his means from other sources. Still he was not inclined that these slatey-looking, dusty, crumbling piles of coals which were his property should disappear under the predatory attacks of the loafers in a low neighbourhood. Therefore he procured Prince at a cheap rate, inducted him into a couch—which, as it had been knocked together by Mr. Jerry Noakes’ own hands from some rickety deals, was as poor an affair and as wretched a shelter from the weather as could well be imagined—and put him in charge of the yard.
It might be promotion, but it was also a great reverse for Prince. True, he had now a regular meal once a-day, a moderate mess of bran and food for poultry, with the parings of cats’ meat, administered by Mr. Jerry, in place of Prince’s being called upon to forage for himself, with the not uncommon conclusion of finding himself both breakfastless and dinnerless, as had been the case lately in Jack’s family circle. But not only was the gain not large, there was the sentiment of the thing. I hope none of my readers suppose that Prince, though a coarse brute, thick-skinned and obtuse, was destitute of feeling.
In Jack’s home the dog was one of the family; indeed from his very doghood he had rather the best of it. For if men and women, responsible beings, will live, like animals, along with animals, the last—the real Simon Pures—have generally the advantage. Jack’s race, reckless as they were, must surely have been visited with some doubts, some anxieties, some pricking sense that they were wasting their capital of time and capacity for work as well as of wages. But of course Prince was never harassed by such a reminder that he had a conscience, and was at once mortal and immortal. He had his little work to do, and did it to the best of his ability. He was occasionally left to keep house, and did not fail in his trust. He sat beside the tools of Jack’s trade many a day, never offering to stir till Jack released him. He entered with pride and zest into his calling as a rat-catcher whenever he had the chance. But all the time he was largely his own master, for he could hardly call it servitude to roam the world of London at Jack’s heels.
It was another matter for Prince to be a prisoner himself, while prepared to take others prisoners, in this dreary yard—to spend day and night there—to have no change of scene, no comradeship, though it might result in scuffles and single combats with other dogs—to see nobody for a stretch of twenty-four hours, perhaps, except Mr. Jerry Noakes. He always spoke gruffly, never encouragingly, to Prince; and the dog, though he was gruff himself, with little tenderness or humour, so that he was impatient of fondling, and had no great aptitude for fun, yet knew and appreciated what fidelity and good-fellowship meant.
That parting from his first master, Jack, had been a great wrench to Prince’s whole nature; and while the strain of the pull, and the ache of the void, were still in full force, the dog was condemned for his sins to solitary confinement, on the lowest diet, and with no satisfaction of his social instincts, except the brief interview with Mr. Jerry Noakes, his gaoler, who never said, “Hie! old dog,” or “What are you arter to-day, you duffer?” or “Shan’t we have a rove to-night, my beauty?”
Sometimes Prince was so depressed in his spirits that he could not find it in his heart to make a spring, worry, and have done with a cat which, from scrambling idly down on the wall, ventured imprudently to descend into his territory. He contented himself with growling at her, just that she might escape to the wall again, and stand there raising her back and spitting at him, which was an approach to company.
It was a positive relief when the sun was right overhead, blazing down into the little black hole, threatening to produce spontaneous combustion among the materials for fuel which seemed then so unnecessary, and to grill the bones of Prince, lying panting with his tongue out in that couch of his, which neither kept out heat nor cold, and was very far from water-tight—that he could divert his mind from sad thoughts by watching the blue-bottle flies which, for some reason Prince could not divine—if he had got his choice, he would not have selected such quarters—congregated and buzzed lazily about the enclosure. Prince only watched the flies; he was by far too practical and mature a dog to descend—even in his dulness, and although he had not been weak from deficiency of food and overcome by the heat—to anything so childish as catching flies.
I think it was Sir Edwin Landseer himself who said that no dog could endure being kept strictly on the chain for a longer period than three years; that his heart would break, or his reason give way in the interval.