Toby Dog

A Pathetic Little Story.
by Alice and Claude Askew.

Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #12 (Mar 1906).

The adventures of a little dog which belonged to a Punch and Judy show.

Toby dog was not beautiful to look upon. Patchy is the best epithet that can be applied to his rough and shaggy coat. His tail was inordinately long, his ears lopped ingloriously, he could never—apparently—prick them both up at the same time, but he had a way of raising each alternately which won him many a laugh during his performance—a fact of which he seemed to be not only conscious but proud.
        He had a habit, too, of grinning, as if he appreciated the joke of his existence, and wished to controvert the oft repeated statement that dogs have no sense of humour. He was a born low comedian, one of those whose very appearance is sufficient to provoke mirth, and as such he was appreciated and valued by his owner, Jem Hardy, the Punch and Judy showman.
        As for his breed, it was quite beyond the power even of the cleverest connoisseur to give it a name. Old Jem had once remarked sarcastically to his pal and assistant, Fred Bates, that Toby Dog represented a whole dog show in his own person, and the observation was certainly justified by the animal's appearance and peculiarities.
        But Toby Dog had no pride, and was quite content with his position. He had taken kindly to the show business, and knew his part to perfection. Mr. Punch's cardboard nose bore witness to the sharpness of his teeth, and to the realism of his acting.
        Sitting up on the little board which constituted the stage, which was, indeed, scarcely large enough for him, he would dangle his forepaws humorously, holding the stick between them, and would give vent to short, sharp barks, always uttered at the right moment, and particularly expressive of the emotions required of him.
        His white and red ruff, worn and stained from long service, hung loosely about his neck, but to Toby-Dog this collar was the outward and visible indication of his object in life, and he was never so happy as when old Jem tied it about his neck, signifying that the day's work was about to begin.
        He recognised Jem Hardy as his best friend in the world. The old showman had saved him in his puppy days from an untimely end in the water-butt to which he had been destined, and it was as if Toby Dog were conscious of the fact, and grateful to his preserver. The showman had recognised histrionic possibilities in the poor little mongrel puppy, and he had never had cause to regret the few pence which had sufficed to make Toby Dog his own. It was not long before his new acquisition became old Jem's most valuable asset, and he often vowed that nothing on earth would induce him to part with his animal friend.
        But alas for human nature! Jem Hardy had not foreseen the temptation that would one day assail him, and to which it was destined that he should yield.
        It came about in this way. Times were bad, and the Punch and Judy show business was no longer what it used to be. Hours of weary trudging through streets which had once been productive of revenue now brought small returns.
        It was a hard winter. Days of snow and slush were succeeded by days of rain and mud. The streets were deserted. Even the poor children who were wont to follow in the wake of the dingy show had grown inconstant. Windows were hermetically closed. The very elements seemed to have united to bring Mr. Punch into disfavour.
        Matters grew worse and worse. Jem Hardy's small reserve stock was almost exhausted. Toby Dog went hungry in those days, but he never lost his good temper, and he seemed to know with quick intelligence that, if he were hungry, his masters, too, were without sufficient food.
        "Blessed if the dog don't understand everything, just as well as you and me, Fred," was Jem Hardy's appreciation, as he affectionately pulled Toby Dog's pendent ear. "He's a born Christian—that's what he is, and it goes to my heart that we can't feed him proper."
        The two men had been discussing the possibility of undertaking other work, at least for the time being. Fred Bates was young and strong. He could turn his hand to any job that might present itself. But old Jem shook his head. He was well advanced in years, and he had been a Punch and Judy showman all his life. There was no other work that he could do. He had not the strength to carry the appliances of his show by himself. If Fred Bates deserted him now it was hardly likely that he could get through the winter. He could work in his one groove, but to abandon that groove would be the same as a death-warrant to Jem Hardy.
        "Let's stick to it, Fred," he pleaded. "Times will change, and we shall round the corner. The winter's three parts gone, and we will pull up in the spring—see if we don't. Ain't we got Toby Dog! And ain't he enough to make our fortunes for us? Don't people want to laugh—and how can they help laughing when they looks at him? I tell you he'll bring us luck, Fred."
        Matters, however, did not mend; instead they went from bad to worse. There were days of absolutely profitless wandering, days when Jem and his companion returned to their poor home soaked to their skins, shivering with cold and hunger, returned to find no fire in the hearth—no warmth—no food—no comforts.
        Despair came at last.
        "Let's go out again to-morrow, Fred," said old Jem gloomily, "and then, if there ain't nothing doing, we must chuck it. You'll find work, my lad, but as for me—" Jem shrugged his shoulders mournfully. He knew what abandoning his work meant for him.
        The next morning dawned brighter. It was less cold, too, and the streets were dry. There was some encouragement in Toby Dog's yapping when the clown ruff was buttoned about his neck. There was some encouragement, too, in the little crowd of vagrant children that met Jem Hardy's show at the corner of the street and prepared to accompany it upon its expedition.
        But after this, during the whole desolate hours of the morning, the usual ill-success attended the show. One or two haphazard performances were given at likely spots, but the small crowd that collected always melted away when Fred Bates went round to make his collection. Those that had laughed loudest at Toby Dog's vagaries were the first to disappear. Toby Dog pricked up alternate ears in vain—laughter was his only recompense.
        It was late in the afternoon when, all unexpectedly, as the little procession passed through a street of somewhat richer houses than those which they were wont to affect, a summons came to give a performance before the windows of a large house. A neat nursemaid brought the message. She asked the price in an offhand voice, and made no objection to the sum named by Fred Bates. This was, indeed paid in advance. Jem Hardy, from behind his curtain, muttered words of thanksgiving.
        "Didn't I say as luck would turn, Fred?" he murmured. "We'll stick to the show—yes, we'll stick to the show."
        But Fred Bates shook his head ominously. He had no aptitude for looking on the brighter side of things.
        "What's one performance?" he said: "It ain't no good, old man, and to-morrow I chucks it, so I tells you straight."
        Nevertheless the performance that afternoon was a great success, and met with unqualified approval. Little Stanley Carrington, for whose benefit the show had been ordered, wheeled in his invalid chair to the window, clapped his hands, and enjoyed himself mightily. He was a poor, sickly little mortal, stricken with hip-joint disease, a cripple, and one who had never known the delights of the real theatre. His parents were rich, and he was their only son. They were ready to gratify his smallest wish, knowing only too well how little they could do, and how soon there would be no longer any wishes to gratify.
        Toby Dog, as if impelled by the consciousness of a real performance, exceeded himself that day. He caught Mr. Punch by the nose and shook the puppet from side to side of the little stage with unusual vigour, turning after this achievement towards his small audience, his lips drawn up in the grin so peculiarly his own, as though demanding approval of a meritorious act.
        His ears lifted in their quaint alternate fashion—the trick which he had learnt so early in his stage career—and he emitted a series of short, sharp barks, as Mr. Punch disappeared from the scene, leaving him triumphant and alone, begging on the little platform, waving his forepaws protestingly before him.
        The little crowd of children and idlers in the street applauded as they were always wont to do at the termination of Toby Dog's great scene. There was something so irresistibly comic in the dog's antics, and one felt instinctively that the animal himself was keenly alive to the humour of the situation.
        Stanley Carrington's father, leaning on the sill of the open window, did not fail to appreciate this, more especially when he realised the glee with which his little son watched the dog's tricks.
        "By Jove, that's a clever beast!" he remarked to Stanley's mother, who was propping the child up in her arms so that he could the better watch the show which had been ordered for his benefit. "There's no end to the tricks which you can teach an intelligent mongrel."
        Toby Dog had disappeared by now, and the scene between Mr. Punch and the hangman was in progress. Stanley Car1ington's interest, too, had waned. The gruesome preparations for Mr. Punch's execution failed to excite his interest; the apparition of the coffin caused him to avert his eyes.
        "I like the little dog," he piped querulously. "Daddy, can't we have the little dog again? He was so funny when he stuck one ear up while the other flapped down. Go and tell them I want the Toby Dog back." All unconsciously he made use of the name by which the object of his admiration was known.
        It was all in vain that the boy's father pointed out that the dog had played his part. Stanley was imperative in his demand, and consequently a request had to be sent out to the showman—a request with which old Jem readily complied.
        Toby Dog re-appeared. Once more he sat up on the little board, grinning and barking the while, once more he fixed his teeth in the cardboard nose. The child at the window screamed his approval. The dog nodded his head and waved his paws as if in farewell—another trick which he had learnt—and then sprang down into old Jem's arms. Fred Bates drew a final wail from the pipes. The show was over.
        But Stanley Carrington had meanwhile been struck by a new idea. With him to ask for a thing was to have it. Furthermore, he was never averse to asking for that which took his fancy. And just now he wanted Toby Dog.
        "I want the little dog, daddy," he pleaded.
        Mr. Carrington expostulated in vain. He was quite sure that the showman would not sell the animal. It was like asking him to part with the means of his livelihood. If Stanley wanted a dog—
        "I want that Toby Dog," whined the child.
        Mrs. Carrington joined forces on behalf of her son.
        "There's no harm in asking," she whispered hurriedly. "Perhaps if you offer enough-- Quick, John, or they will be gone."
        So Mr. Carrington departed upon what he considered a hopeless task. He did not know the strait to which Jem Hardy was reduced, nor that Fred Bates was engaged at that moment in pointing out that the small sum received for the performance was insufficient to pay arrears of rent, and that the general position was in nowise changed for the better.
        Nevertheless, at first old Jem received with fine scorn the suggestion that he should sell Toby Dog. Much palavering ensued, and then Mr. Carrington named a price which caused the old man to look at him in surprise.
        "The dog's but a mongrel, sir," he said, "though I'll allow he's clever."
        This was the first sign of wavering. Mr. Carrington, noticing it, raised his offer. Money was nothing to him by the side of his child's wishes. He glanced deprecatingly at Toby Dog, taking in the dog's manifold imperfections.
        "Mongrel or not, I want him," he said shortly.
        It was long before Jem Hardy yielded. Probably he would never have done so had it not been for Fred Bates, who had certain potent arguments to adduce.
        "Take it on, old man," whispered Fred. "I tell you it's a snip. You'll never get such another chance. Think of it. Cash to settle up the rent and make you comfortable for weeks—till things look up again. You can 'ave a 'oliday, and I'll get to work."
        "I don't want no 'oliday," muttered Jem. "'Olidays ain't never been no use to me."
        "That cough o' yours," remarked the other critically, "has been very bad lately. Take my tip, Jem," he went on, "and close with the bargain. When the spring comes we'll make a fresh start. I know where I can get a little dog just as good as our Toby—funny tricks and all. Why, man"—he raised his voice eagerly—"there'll be food and fire for us to-night, and for weeks to come! I'm tired of starving, if you ain't. As matters stand there's nothin' to eat for you nor me nor for the dog neither. We may all go to Kingdom Come together."
        There was force in the argument, and Jem Hardy was constrained to admit it. No food—not even for Toby Dog! He hated the thought that his pet should be in want. Was it not after all the best kindness to yield?
        He yielded accordingly—but it was with a heavy heart.
        "You'll be kind to him, sir?" he muttered. "He's a regular Christian, and he understands more'n you'd give him credit for."
        Kind to him! Mr. Carrington laughed. Was it likely that the elect of Stanley's wishes would be unkindly treated?
        So Toby Dog was sold into the bondage of wealth and luxury. He had been standing all the while by his master's side, patiently awaiting the signal to move on. He seemed surprised—though he yapped delightedly—when old Jem picked him up and fondled him in a quite unwonted manner.
        "He doesn't bite, I suppose?" asked Mr. Carrington.
        "Lor', no, sir," was the hoarse answer. "But I think I'd better carry him to the house for you. He'll struggle else."
        Accordingly, old Jem carried Toby Dog into the house, even straight upstairs into little Stanley's room, where, by special request, he made the animal perform his tricks one after the other.
        Toby Dog seemed to enjoy the fun—all the more when an ample meal was set before him. His attention was wholly occupied with this when old Jem stole away from the room and the house.
        There was food and fire in Jem Hardy's lodging that night, but the old man sat still and pensive.
        "There's no call to work for a week or so," Fred told him cheerfully. "Your 'oliday has begun, Jem."
        "Yes," repeated Jem thoughtfully, "my 'oliday has begun."
        As for Toby Dog, he didn't understand things at all. He did not seem to realise at first that he had been left for good, and so he made no objection to repeating his tricks over and over again for little Stanley's delectation.
        The fragile child had never been so happy, nor laughed so heartily. Mr. Carrington had no reason to regret his purchase—outrageous as it had seemed at the time.
        Now and then, however, Toby Dog ran to the door and whined, but he always returned when Stanley called him, feebly wagging his ungainly tail, crouching to the floor. Mrs. Carrington opined that he had been ill-treated by his late masters.
        Stanley tired at last of his new toy, and Toby Dog was removed to a room adjoining the child's. He was fed again—he had never tasted such food in his life—and he was put to sleep in a luxuriously mounted bed that had belonged to a former pet. But during the night he crawled out of this and sprawled at length upon the floor. Also he kept up a little monotonous whine, which irritated Stanley's nurse to such an extent that she had the dog removed—bed and all—to another room where the noise was not likely to disturb anyone. And here Toby Dog was left to his own meditations—whatever they may have been.
        During the days that followed Toby Dog was docile and obedient; to outward view—happy. A gorgeous collar was made for him, engraved with his name and the address of his new master. It was a change from the red and white Toby frill to which he had been accustomed, and which had meant so much to him. He did not like it at all.
        Also he never took to the luxuries of his new surroundings. He never slept in his gorgeous bed unless he could help it. He protested strongly against being washed, and it almost appeared as if he ate his food under protest. He was a plebeian, and his tastes were of the street.
        Mr. Carrington often recognised this, but as long as his child was content he saw no reason to complain. The great point was that Toby Dog was always kind and gentle with little Stanley, obeying the child's smallest command. Whether Toby Dog was happy or not was quite outside the question.
        The brightest moments in the animal's life at this time were when he was set to do his tricks. Then the spirit of the low comedian seemed to awaken in him, and he was himself once more. He did his best, but somehow it was not the same. The accessories to which he was accustomed were wanting. There was no Mr. Punch to play up to—no little stage on which to beg, and, above all, there were no arms outstretched for him to jump into when the performance was concluded.
        The spring came on, and one morning, Toby Dog, finding a door left conveniently open, effected his escape. His heart pined for the vagrant life to which he had been accustomed. Luxuries palled upon him. He had never been cut out for a pet dog.
        Of course his flight was arrested before he had got far, and he was brought back. The name and address on his collar were so very definite. Mr. Carrington paid a small reward without grumbling, and both Stanley and his mother, thinking thereby to win the animal's heart and make him content, treated him with redoubled kindness. But it was liberty that Toby Dog wanted—the liberty of the strolling player.
        A second attempt at flight was not more successful than the first, though on this occasion Toby Dog was absent for two days. He was brought back bedraggled, begrimed—a sorry spectacle. One of his pendent ears had got damaged, probably in a fight with some other vagrant. Stanley shed tears over the prodigal, and once more took him to his heart. Mr. Carrington had to pay up a more substantial reward on this occasion.
        "If the dog runs away again," he told his butler in confidence, "I'm inclined to think, Wilson, that we won't take him back. Master Stanley would get over his trouble in time."
        The butler acquiesced readily enough. He had no liking for Toby Dog, whose paws were apt to bring dirt into the hall, and whom he described as an ugly little cur, unfit for a gentleman's house.
        Little Stanley was much distressed at the second attempt at flight on the part of his favourite, all the more as Toby Dog seemed so docile and contented. But how could the child understand the mysterious working of a dog's mind—or instinct, if the word be preferred?
        As the days passed on, too, little Stanley perforce gave less attention to his pet. He was ill, gravely ill, and the least effort tired him. Even the pleasure of performing his favourite tricks was denied to Toby Dog in those days, and again he longed for his freedom.
        A third opportunity came. It was almost as if it had been prepared for him. As a matter of fact, the doctor attending little Stanley had objected to the dog's constant presence in the sick room. The collar bearing his name and address had not been put round his neck that day. If Toby Dog chose to run away there was less chance of his being brought back.
        Naturally Toby Dog elected to run away, and Mr. Carrington—to say nothing of the butler--smiled as the dog's ungainly figure was seen disappearing into the next street, slinking along by the side of the railings. This time it was more than probable that Toby Dog was lost for good.
        Little Stanley was so ill that day that he was not even able to inquire after the fate of his mongrel friend.
        As for Toby Dog, he wandered for a day or two, living anyhow, his mind filled, probably with the homing instinct, seeking for the court where he had been brought up, where he should find Jem Hardy, Mr. Punch, and all the other beloved companions of his stage career. No one attempted to stay him; it was nobody's business to do so. He was but a homeless mongrel, a pariah of the gutter.
        And at last he came very near the court where Jem Hardy had had his home, and it was here, one morning, that a grateful sound fell upon his ear. It was not likely that Toby Dog should fail to recognise the call of the pan pipes, the root-ti-ti-toot of Mr. Punch.
        A little procession, headed by the usual crowd of children, emerged from the side street. Toby Dog ran to it joyfully, emitting short yaps of pleasure. Perhaps he expected—who can say?—a pair of rough arms to be stretched out to greet him, arms into which he could spring as he had been wont to do—perhaps he thought that he could at once take his place upon the little stage, and assault Mr. Punch after the fashion so dear to his heart.
        If Toby Dog had any such thoughts or expectations he was doomed to bitter disappointment. When he reached the object of his desire the curtain was in process of being lowered round the wooden framework, and he quickly recognised that the pipe player outside was a stranger to him. He sniffed and whined at the curtain, beneath which a pair of legs, seemingly more familiar, appeared.
        "What's this dog want, Fred?" asked the man with the pipes. "Seems as if he knew you."
        Fred Bates' head appeared—but only for a moment. He did not even glance at Toby Dog.
        "Bleed if I know," he said angrily. "Can't you see I'm busy, Tim? Our own dog's all right, ain't he? Then we don't want no other hangin' about. Kick him out. Chuck a stone at him!" A suggestion which Tim of the pipes immediately acted upon.
        Toby Dog fled incontinently—he had never been very brave. The children laughed at him—"shoo'd" him still further off. One of them made a grab at his tail. There were none who recognised their old favourite in the bedraggled outcast.
        The show began. Attention was taken from Toby Dog—he was, in fact, completely forgotten. He stood on the fringe of the little crowd, resting upon three legs, one of his forepaws raised and bent pathetically, a position which he had learnt to assume since the termination of his theatrical career.
        A laugh went up from the children. The new Toby had appeared, lifted into position by Fred Bates' experienced hands. He was a rough-haired terrier, sharp-eyed, with little jerky movements of his own, and a peculiar writhing of the body that appealed to his audience. He wore a new frill in which he evidently took much pride. He was a clever comedian, and quite worthy of public favour—though he had not mastered Toby Dog's tricks of lifting alternate ears and drawing up the corners of his mouth in an expressive grin.
        The performance went well, and, though it was a poor neighbourhood, quite a respectable collection was made. The fortunes of Mr. Punch were looking up. Fred Bates had been quite right when he judged that spring would bring improved prospects, and that with the money realised by the sale of Toby Dog he and his partner could afford to wait. There had been only one flaw in the scheme, and that had been its effect upon Jem Hardy. The old man on beginning his holiday had felt instinctively that he would never resume work. And he, too, had been right in his judgment of the situation.
        Perhaps Toby Dog's instinct told him that his old friend had disappeared—perhaps he felt himself superseded, unwanted, done for. Who can say? Certainly he made no further attempt to approach the show.
        He slunk back against the railings of a house, his ears hanging limply down, his tail dragging, his pathetic forepaw bent under him. Here he was noticed by Arthur Vane, the popular actor, a man of observation and shrewdness, who chanced to pass with a friend, and who had paused for a moment to watch the play of the puppets.
        "There's a picture for you, Bruce," he said, pointing to the miniature stage, and then to the dog, crouching up against the railings. "What does it suggest?"
        The friend, an artist, shrugged his shoulders. He was not accustomed to find subjects for his pictures in such surroundings.
        "What do you see in it!" he asked.
        "All the pathos of an old actor watching a successful rival play his favourite part." replied Vane. "That mongrel there is cut out for a Toby. Shouldn't wonder if he had been one once. But it's Poverty Corner for him now, Bruce. Poor brute! Here—Toby—Toby!"
        He stretched out a friendly hand, but Toby Dog slunk away from him. Arthur Wane laughed—a trifle ironically.
        "Unlike his human prototype," he remarked then, as Toby Dog disappeared into the next street. "Poor brute," he repeated, "a low comedian if ever I saw one! His very snarl was histrionic!"
        All of which was good proof of Arthur Vane's discernment.
        It would be hard to say how Toby Dog spent the next few days. Perhaps Poverty Corner knew him. Perhaps his natural instincts for a vagrant life served him in good stead. But about a week later, thin and sorry, he found his way back to the house in which he had been petted and spoilt. His little master, Stanley Carrington, had at least been appreciative of his abilities the laughter of one might serve where the laughter of many had failed. This, again, must be mere supposition; it is, of course, far more likely that Toby Dog obeyed the natural impulses that told him where food might be found.
        All that is certain is that Toby Dog reached the doorstep of Mr. Carrington's house just as a solemn cortège took it slow way down the street. The hearse contained a small coffin, hidden from view by a mass of white flowers. Toby Dog paused, standing irresolutely upon his three legs, but the procession meant nothing to him. He gained the door of the house, which still stood open. Wilson, the butler, was about to close it. Toby Dog gave a little yap and wriggled his lean body.
        Wilson looked down and recognised him.
        "Oh, it's you, is it, Mr. Toby Dog!" said the butler. "Well, you've come back a little too late. There's nobody here that wants you now. I don't, anyway, so off you get."
        Whereupon Wilson, the butler, slammed the door.