I wish I could record new triumphs of this canine king of carnival, but fidelity to fact compels me to tell how disobedience was the cause of his fall. The kitchen fire was simply an open fire of wood, like a camp fire, built on a raised stone platform about as high as a table, and a yard and a half square. We often left dishes standing on this platform, and it was strictly forbidden any one of the animals to get up there on the pain of immediate and severe punishment. When I came into the kitchen the morning after Tom's triumph in carnival, his glory was indeed departed: All the feathers on one side were burned and shrivelled up; those around his shoulders were torn off, and his tail ornaments alone remained uninjured. A hollow in the ashes very near the fire showed where the little wretch had passed the night. I confess I hadn't the heart to inflict my usual whipping, although he had broken a salad bowl and a decanter. But I determined to give him the penalty for a crime of the second degree, and with as much firmness as I could muster made him follow me into the attic, where I intended to confine him for an hour or two in a closet—a punishment he dreaded almost as much as a whipping. The attic was a dark one, so I took a candle, and at the top of the stairs set it down at a safe distance from a cotton curtain which covered a row of garments hung upon pegs. While I was going across the attic to open the closet door, the interior was suddenly illuminated by a brilliant flame. Turning around, I saw the whole curtain in a light blaze. To tear it down and trample out the fire was the work of an instant, and the smoking plume on the end of Tom's tail showed the cause of the fire. He had swung his plume into the candle, and then under the curtain, while he stood there sadly wagging his tail. Of course I could not punish him after this ridiculous accident, and I gathered the singed animal in my arms, carried him down into the kitchen again, and shut him up there with his three companions, while we went away to enjoy the close of the carnival sports.
It was almost dinner-time when we returned with two friends to dine. As I opened the door Tom sprang upon me, overjoyed to see me. I noticed at once a suspicious odor of fish about his whiskers, and saw that he was puffed out like a toy balloon. In the kitchen the mystery was soon solved. Giovanni, the gondolier, who, after the Venetian custom, filled the post of cook, carriage-horse, and man-of-all-work, had learned to make some American dishes, and, to surprise our friends, had made a number of fish-balls for one of the courses at dinner, and had placed them on a high shelf over the sink. Now Tom had persuaded the cat to climb up and throw down the fish-balls, which were neatly arranged on the heavy chopping board. Cats are very fond of fish, and I dare say it did not take much eloquence on Tom's part to induce Dick to perform this feat. And all I found of the fish-balls was a few that were flattened on the stone floor under the board. Tom, Dick, Jerry, and Harry had all gorged themselves, and were in a stupid state in consequence. There was nothing to do but to put them out on the loggia in front of the house, and there on the cold stone platform they shivered and whined and scratched the door all through dinner.
If there was any one rule in the house more for the good of the pets than any other it was that the dogs should not run away. In Venice there is a large tax on dogs, and they must wear both collars and muzzles. Neither of our dogs would endure a muzzle for a moment, and so we were in constant fear of their falling into the hands of the public dog-catcher, the coppa cani. Wherever this man goes, the report of his movements precedes him, and dogs unlicensed and unmuzzled are hurried into safety until he is gone. We, of course, feared his approach as much as any one else, and the absence of any one of the dogs caused great anxiety in the house.
On the afternoon in question, after a leisurely dinner, we went out on the loggia to see the pets. Tom was not among them. He had climbed over the parapet, and made his escape through the ship-yard next door. This last trick quite exhausted my patience, and I had a heavy rod in pickle for him. Darkness came on, but the truant did not appear, and we were all afraid that the coppa cani had found him. At last, about eight o'clock, I took a turn on the loggia to whistle once more for the runaway, and I heard a most piteous moan that seemed to come out from under the house. We all went out and searched, and finally found that the sounds of distress came from a small sewer that emptied into the canal directly under the corner of the house. I jumped into the water, which was only waist-deep, waded round, and rescued Tom from where he was clinging to the brick-work of the sewer mouth. He had tried to return through the ship-yard, but had found the gate shut, then, knowing that if he barked at our door he would get a whipping for running away, he planned to jump from the riva of the street to our loggia, and to trust to a skillfully assumed look of innocence to deceive me and save his skin. The distance to jump was fully four feet, and he fell into the water, as he deserved. What was left of his carnival costume when I rescued him would not have feathered an arrow.
And what became of Tom? Why, of course the coppa cani got him at last. All his actions pointed to his probable fate. When I left Venice I placed him in charge of Giovanni, who was very fond of him. But the life of a gondolier at a ferry was wanting in just those luxuries which made Tom's life with us attractive and agreeable. His vagabond habits grew very fast on him, and Giovanni found it impossible to keep him in the gondola. At last one bright day in summer he was flung into the dark cabin of the dog-catcher's dirty boat, and no more was seen of him.
Tom had his vices, but they were very human ones; I have told few or none of his virtues, but they were remarkable.
[HOW TO SAIL A SMALL BOAT.]
BY LIEUTENANT WORTH G. ROSS.
