________________________________________________
_ Great was the mourning for Sancho, because
his talents and virtues made him universally
admired and beloved. Miss Celia advertised,
Thorny offered rewards, and even surly Pat kept a
sharp look-out for poodle dogs when he went to
market; but no Sancho or any trace of him appeared.
Ben was inconsolable, and sternly said it
served Bab right when the dogwood poison affected
both face and hands. Poor Bab thought so, too,
and dared ask no sympathy from him, though Thorny
eagerly prescribed plantain leaves, and Betty kept her
supplied with an endless succession of them steeped
in cream and pitying tears. This treatment was so
successful that the patient soon took her place in
society as well as ever, but for Ben's affliction there was
no cure, and the boy really suffered in his spirits.
"I don't think it's fair that I should have so much
trouble, -- first losing father and then Sanch. If it
wasn't for Lita and Miss Celia, I don't believe I could
stand it," he said, one day, in a fit of despair, about a
week after the sad event.
"Oh, come now, don't give up so, old fellow. We'll
find him if he s alive, and if he isn't I'll try and get
you another as good," answered Thorny, with a
friendly slap on the shoulder, as Ben sat disconsolately
among the beans he had been hoeing.
"As if there ever could be another half as good!"
cried Ben, indignant at the idea; "or as if I'd ever
try to fill his place with the best and biggest dog that
ever wagged a tail! No, sir, there's only one Sanch
in all the world, and if I can't have him I'll never
have a dog again."
"Try some other sort of pet, then. You may have
any of mine you like. Have the peacocks; do now,"
urged Thorny, full of boyish sympathy and good-will.
"They are dreadful pretty, but I don't seem to care
about em, thank you," replied the mourner.
"Have the rabbits, all of them," which was a handsome
offer on Thorny's part, for there were a dozen
at least.
"They don't love a fellow as a dog does; all they
care for is stuff to eat and dirt to burrow in. I'm
sick of rabbits." And well he might be, for he had
had the charge of them ever since they came, and
any boy who has ever kept bunnies knows what a
care they are.
"So am I! Guess we'll have an auction and sell
out. Would Jack be a comfort to you? If he will,
you may have him. I'm so well now, I can walk,
or ride anything," added Thorny, in a burst of
generosity.
"Jack couldn't be with me always, as Sanch was,
and I couldn't keep him if I had him."
Ben tried to be grateful, but nothing short of Lita
would have healed his wounded heart, and she was
not Thorny's to give, or he would probably have
offered her to his afflicted friend.
"Well, no, you couldn't take Jack to bed with you,
or keep him up in your room, and I'm afraid he
Would never learn to do any thing clever. I do wish
I had something you wanted, I'd so love to give it to
you."
He spoke so heartily and was so kind that Ben looked
up, feeling that he had given him one of the sweetest
things in the world -- friendship; he wanted to tell him
so, but did not know how to do it, so caught up his hoe
and fell to work, saying, in a tone Thorny understood
better than words, --
"You are real good to me -never mind, I won't
worry about it; only it seems extra hard coming so soon
after the other--"
He stopped there, and a bright drop fell on the bean
leaves, to shine like dew till Ben saw clearly enough to
bury it out of sight in a great flurry.
"By Jove! I'll find that dog, if he is out of the
ground. Keep your spirits up, my lad, and we'll have
the dear old fellow back yet."
With which cheering prophecy Thorny went off to
rack his brains as to what could be done about the
matter.
Half an hour afterward, the sound of a hand-organ in
the avenue roused him from the brown study into which
he had fallen as he lay on the newly mown grass of the
lawn. Peeping over the wall, Thorny reconnoitred,
and, finding the organ a good one, the man a pleasant-
faced Italian, and the monkey a lively animal, he
ordered them all in, as a delicate attention to Ben,
for music and monkey together might suggest soothing
memories of the past, and so be a comfort.
In they came by way of the Lodge, escorted by Bab
and Betty, full of glee, for hand-organs were rare in
those parts, and the children delighted in them. Smiling
till his white teeth shone and his black eyes
sparkled, the man played away while the monkey
made his pathetic little bows, and picked up the pennies
Thorny threw him.
"It is warm, and you look tired. Sit down and I'll
get you Some dinner," said the young master, pointing
to the seat which now stood near the great gate.
With thanks in broken English the man gladly
obeyed, and Ben begged to be allowed to make Jacko
equally comfortable, explaining that he knew all about
monkeys and what they liked. So the poor thing was
freed from his cocked hat and uniform, fed with bread
and milk, and allowed to curl himself up in the cool
grass for a nap, looking so like a tired littie old man
in a fur coat that the children were never weary of
watching him.
Meantime, Miss Celia had come out, and was talking
Italian to Giacomo in a way that delighted his
homesick heart. She had been to Naples, and could
understand his longing for the lovely city of his birth,
so they had a little chat in the language which is all
Music, andd the good fellow was so grattful that he
played for the children to dance till they were glad to
stop, lingering afterward as if he hated to set out again
upon his lonely, dusty walk.
"I'd rather like to tramp round with him for a week
or so. Could make enough to live on as easy as not,
if I only I had sanch to show off," said Ben, as he was
coaxing Jacko into the suit which he detested.
"You go wid me, yes?" asked the man, nodding and
smiling, well pleased at the prospect of company, for
his quick eye and what the boys let fall in their talk
showed him that Ben was not one of them.
If I had my dog I'd love to," and with sad eagerness
Ben told the tale of his loss, for the thought of it
was never long out of his mind.
"I tink I see droll dog like he, way off in New York.
He do leetle trick wid letter, and dance, and go on he
head, and many tings to make laugh," said the man,
when he had listened to a list of Sanch's beauties and
accomplishments.
"Who had him? " asked Thorny, full of interest at
once.
"A man I not know. Cross fellow what beat him
when he do letters bad."
"Did he spell his name?" cried Ben, breathlessly.
"No; that for why man beat him. He name Generale,
and he go spell Sancho all times, and cry when
whip fall on him. Ha! yes! that name true one; not
Generale? " and the man nodded, waved his hands,
and showed his teeth, almost as much excited as the
boys.
"It's Sanch! let's go and get him now, right off!
cried Ben, in a fever to be gone.
"A hundred miles away, and no clue but this man's
story? We must wait a little, Ben, and be sure before
we set out," said Miss Celia, ready to do almost any
thing, but not so certain as the boys. " What sort of
a dog was it? A large, curly, white poodle, with a
queer tail ?" she asked of Giacomo.
"No, Signorina mia, he no curly, no wite; he black,
smooth dog, littel tail, small, so;" and the man held
up one brown finger with a gesture which suggested a
short, wagging tail.
"There, you see how mistaken we were. Dogs are
often named Sancho, especially Spanish poodles; for
the original Sancho was a Spaniard, you know. This
dog is not ours, and I'm so sorry."
The boys' faces had fallen dismally as their hope was
destroyed; but Ben would not give up. For him there
was and could be only one Sancho in the world, and
his quick wits suggested an explanation which no one
else thought of.
"It may be my dog, -- they color 'em as we used to
paint over trick horses. I told you he was a valuable
chap, and those that stole him hide him that way, else
he'd be no use, don't you see? because we'd know
him."
"But the black dog had no tail," began Thorny,
longing to be convinced, but still doubtful.
Ben shivered as if the mere thought hurt him, as he
said, in a grim tone, --
"They might have cut Sanch's off."
"Oh, no! no! they mustn't, -- they wouldn't!
How Could any one be so wicked?" cried Bab and
Betty, horrified at the suggestion.
"You don't know what such fellows would do to
make all safe, so they could use a dog to earn their
living for 'em," said Ben, with mysterious significance,
quite forgetting in his wrath that be had just proposed
to get his own living in that way himself.
"He no your dog? Sorry I not find him for you.
Addio, signorina! Grazia, signor! Buon giorno, buon
giorno!" and, kissing his hand, the Italian shouldered
organ and monkey, ready to go.
Miss Celia detained him long enough to give him
her address, and beg him to let her know if he met
poot Sanch in any of his wanderings; for such itinerant
showmen often cross each other's paths. Ben and
Thorny walked to the school-corner with him, getting
more exact information about the black dog and his
owner, for they had no intention of giving it up so
soon.
That very evening, Thorny wrote to a boy cousin
in New York, giving all the particulars of the case,
and begging him to hunt up the man, investigate the
dog, and see that the police made sure that every thing
was right. Much relieved by this performance, the
boys waited anxiously for a reply, and when it came
found little comfort in it. Cousin Horace had done
his duty like a man, but regretted that he could only
report a failure. The owner of the black poodle was
a suspicious character, but told a straight story, how
he had bought the dog from a stranger, and exhibited
him with success till he was stolen. Knew nothing of
his history, and was very sorry to lose him, for he
was a remarkably clever beast.
"I told my dog-man to look about for him, but he
says he has probably been killed, with ever so many
more; so there is an end of it, and I call it a mean
shame."
"Good for Horace! I told you he'd do it up
thoroughly and see the end of it," said Thorny, as
he read that paragraph in the deeply interesting letter.
"May be the end of that dog, but not of mine.
I'll bet he ran away; and if it was Sanch, he'll come
home. You see if he doesn't!" cried Ben, refusing
to believe that all was over.
"A hundred wiles off? Oh, he couldn't find you
without help, smart as he is," answered Thorny,
incredulously.
Ben looked discouraged, but Miss Celia cheered
him up again by saying, --
"Yes, he could. My father had a friend who left
a little dog in Paris; and the creature found her in
Milan, and died of fatigue next day. That was very
wonderful, but true; and I've no doubt that if Sanch
is alive he will come home. Let us hope so, and be
happy, while we wait."
"We will!" said the boys; and day after day
looked for the wanderer's return, kept a bone ready
in the old place if he should arrive at night, and
shook his mat to keep it soft for his weary bones
when he came. But weeks passed, and still no
Sanch.
Something else happened, however, so absorbing
that he was almost forgotten for a time; and Ben
found a way to repay a part of all he owed his best
friend.
Miss Celia went off for a ride one afternoon, and an
hour afterward, as Ben sat in the porch reading, Lita
dashed into the yard with the reins dangling about
her legs, the saddle turned round, and one side covered
with black mud, showing that she had been
down. For a minute, Ben's heart stood still; then
he flung away his book, ran to the horse, and saw at
once by her heaving flanks, dilated nostrils, and wet
coat, that she must have come a long way and at full
speed.
"She has had a fall, but isn't hurt or frightened,"
thought the boy, as the pretty creature rubbed her nose
against his shoulder, pawed the ground, and champed
her bit, as if she tried to tell him all about the
disaster, whatever it was.
"Lita, where's Miss Celia?" he asked, looking
straight into the intelligent eyes, which were troubled
but not wild.
Lita threw up her head, and neighed loud and
clear, as if she called her mistress; and, turning, would
have gone again if Ben had not caught the reins and
held her.
"All right, we'll find her;" and, pulling off the
broken saddle, kicking away his shoes, and ramming
his hat firmly on, Ben was up like a flash, tingling all
over with a sense of power as he felt the bare back
between his knees, and caught the roll of Lita's eye
as she looked round with an air of satisfaction.
"Hi, there! Mrs. Moss! Something has happened
to Miss Celia, and I'm going to find her. Thorny
is asleep; tell him easy, and I'll come back as soon
as I can!"
Then, giving Lita her head, he was off before the
startled woman had time to do more than wring her
hands and cry out, --
"Go for the Squire! Oh, what shall we do?"
As if she knew exactly what was wanted of her,
Lita went back the way she had come, as Ben could
see by the fresh, irregular tracks that cut up the road
where she had galloped for help. For a mile or
more they went, then she paused at a pair of bars,
which were let down to allow the carts to pass into the
wide hay-fields beyond. On she went again, cantering
across the new-mown turf toward a brook, across
which she had evidently taken a leap before; for, on
the further side, at a place where cattle went to drink,
the mud showed signs of a fall.
"You were a fool to try there; but where is Miss
Celia?" said Ben, who talked to animals as if they
were people, and was understood much better than
any one not used to their companionship would imagine.
Now Lita seemed at a loss, and put her head down,
as if she expected to find her mistress where she had
left her, somewhere on the ground. Ben called, but
there was no answer; and he rode slowly along the
brook-side, looking far and wide with anxious
eyes.
"May be she wasn't hurt, and has gone to that
house to wait," thought the boy, pausing for a last
survey of the great, sunny field, which had no place
of shelter in it but one rock on the other side of the
little stream. As his eye wandered over it, something
dark seemed to blow out from behind it, as if the
wind played in the folds of a shirt, or a human limb
moved. Away went Lita, and in a moment Ben had
found Miss Celia, lying in the shadow of the rock,
so white and motionless, he feared that she was dead.
He leaped down, touched her, spoke to her; and,
receiving no answer, rushed away to bring a little
water in his leaky hat to sprinkle in her face, as he
had seen them do when any of the riders got a fall
in the circus, or fainted from exhaustion after they
left the ring, where "do or die" was the motto all
adopted.
In a minute, the blue eyes opened, and she recognized
the anxious face bending over her, saying
faintly, as she touched it, --
"My good little Ben, I knew you'd find me, -- I
sent Lita for you, -- I'm so hurt, I couldn't come."
"Oh,where? What shall I do? Had I better run
up to the house?" asked Ben, overjoyed to hear
her speak, but much dismayed by her seeming
helplessness, for he had seen bad falls, and had them,
too.
"I feel bruised all over, and my arm is broken, I'm
afraid. Lita tried not to hurt me. She slipped, and
we went down. I came here into the shade, and the
pain made me faint, I suppose. Call somebody, and
get me home."
Then she shut her eyes, and looked so white
that Ben hurried away, and burst upon old Mrs.
Paine, placidly knitting at the end door, so suddenly
that, as she afterward said, "It sca't her like a clap o'
thunder."
"Ain't a man nowheres around. All down in the
big medder gettin' in hay," was her reply to Ben's
breathless demand for "everybody to come and see
to Miss Celia."
He turned to mount, for he had flung himself off
before Lita stopped, but the old lady caught his jacket,
and asked half a dozen questions in a breath.
"Who's your folks? What's broke? How'd she
fall? Where is she? Why didn't she come right
here? Is it a sunstroke?"
As fast as words could tumble out of his mouth,
Ben answered, and then tried to free himself; but the
old lady held on, while she gave her directions,
expressed her sympathy, and offered her hospitality
with incoherent warmth.
"Sakes alive! poor dear! Fetch her right in.
Liddy, get out the camphire; and, Melissy, you haul
down a bed to lay her on. Falls is dretful uncert'in
things; shouldn't wonder if her back was broke.
Father's down yender, and he and Bijah will see
to her. You go call 'em, and I'll blow the horn to
start 'em up. Tell her we'd be pleased to see her,
and it won't make a mite of trouble."
Ben heard no more, fur as Mrs. Paine turned to take
down the tin horn he was up and away.
Several long and dismal toots sent Lita galloping
through the grassy path as the sound of the trumpet
excites a war-horse, and "father and Bijah," alarmed
by the signal at that hour, leaned on their rakes to
survey with wonder the distracted-looking little horseman
approaching like a whirlwind.
"Guess likely grandpa's had 'nother stroke. Told
'em to send over soon 's ever it come," said the
farmer, calmly.
"Shouldn't wonder ef suthing was afire some'r's,"
conjectured the hired man, surveying the horizon for
a cloud of smoke.
Instead of advancing to meet the messenger, both
stood like statues in blue overalls and red flannel shirts,
till the boy arrived and told his tale.
"Sho, that's bad," said the farmer, anxiously.
"That brook always was the darndest place," added
Bijah; then both men bestirred themselves helpfully,
the former hurrying to Miss Cella while the latter
brought up the cart and made a bed of hay to lay
her on.
"Now then, boy, you go for the doctor. Myw omen
folks will see to the lady, and she'd better keep quiet
up yender till we see what the matter is," said the
farmer, when the pale girl was lifted in as carefully as
four strong arms could do it. "Hold on," he added,
as Ben made one leap to Lita's back. You'll have
to go to Berryville. Dr. Mills is a master hand for
broken bones and old Dr. Babcock ain't. 'Tisn't but
about three miles from here to his house, and you'll
fetch him 'fore there's any harm done waitin'."
"Don't kill Lita," called Miss Celia from the cart, as
it began to move.
But Ben did not hear her, for he was off across the
fields, riding as if life and death depended upon his
speed.
"That boy will break his neck," said Mr. Paine,
standing still to watch horse and rider go over the
wall as if bent on instant destruction.
"No fear for Ben, he can ride any thing, and Lita
was trained to leap," answered Miss Celia, falling back
on the hay with a groan, for she had involuntarily
raised her head to see her little squire dash away in
gallant style.
"I should hope so; regular jockey, that boy.
Never see any thing like it out of a race-ground,"
and Farmer Paine strode on, still following with his
eye the figures that went thundering over the bridge,
up the hill, out of sight, leaving a cloud of cloud
of dust behind.
Now that his mistress was safe, Ben enjoyed that
wild ride mightily, and so did the bay mare; for Lita
had good blood in her, and proved it that day by
doing her three miles in a wonderfully short time.
People jogging along in wagons and country carry-alls
stared amazed as the reckless pair went by. Women,
placidly doing their afternoon sewing at the front windows,
dropped their needles to run out with exclamations
of alarm, sure some one was being run away with;
children playing by the roadside scattered like
chickens before a hawk, as Ben passed with a warning
whoop, and baby-carriages were scrambled into
door-yards with perilous rapidity at his approach.
But when he clattered into town, intense interest
was felt in this barefooted boy on the foaming steed,
and a dozen voices asked, "Who's killed?" as he
pulled up at the doctor's gate.
"Jest drove off that way; Mrs. Flynn's baby's in a
fit," cried a stout lady from the piazza, never ceasing
to rock, though several passers-by paused to hear the
news, for she was a doctor's wife, and used to the
anival of excited messengers from all quarters at all
hours of the day and night.
Deigning no reply to any one, Ben rode away, wishing
he could leap a yawning gulf, scale a precipice, or
ford a raging torrent, to prove his devotion to Miss
Celia, and his skill in horsemanship. But no dangers
beset his path, and he found the doctor pausing to
water his tired horse at the very trough where Bab
and Sancho had been discovered on that ever-memorable
day. The story was quickly told, and, promising
to be there as soon as possible, Dr. Mills drove on to
relieve baby Flynn's inner man, a little disturbed by a
bit of soap and several buttons, upon which he had
privately lunched while his mamma was busy at the
wash-tub.
Ben thanked his stars, as he had already done more
than once, that he knew how to take care of a horse;
for he delayed by the watering-place long enough to
wash out Lita's mouth with a handful of wet grass,
to let her have one swallow to clear her dusty throat,
and then went slowly back over the breezy hills, patting
and praising the good creature for her intelligence
and speed. She knew well enough that she had been
a clever little mare, and tossed her head, arched her
glossy neck, and ambled daintily along, as conscious
and coquettish as a pretty woman, looking round at
her admiring rider to return his compliments by glance
of affection, and caressing sniffs of a velvet nose at his
bare feet.
Miss Celia had been laid comfortably in bed by the
farmer's wife and daughter; and, when the doctor
arrived, bore the setting of her arm bravely. No
other serious damage appeared, and bruises soon
heal, so Ben was sent home to comfort Thorny with
a good report, and ask the Squire to drive up in his
big carry-all for her the next day, if she was able to
be moved.
Mrs. Moss had been wise enough to say nothing,
but quietly made what preparations she could, and
waited for tidings. Bab and Betty were away berrying,
so no one had alarmed Thorny, and he had his
afternoon nap in peace, -- an unusually long one,
owing to the stillness which prevailed in the absence
of the children; and when he awoke he lay reading
for a while before he began to wonder where every
one was. Lounging out to see, he found Ben and
Lita reposing side by side on the fresh straw in the
loose box, which had been made for her in the coach-
house. By the pails, sponges and curry-combs lying
about, it was evident that she had been refreshed by
a careful washing and rubbing down, and my lady
was now luxuriously resting after her labors, with
her devoted groom half asleep close by.
"Well, of all queer boys you are the queerest, to
spend this hot afternoon fussing over Lita, just for
the fun of it!" cried Thorny, looking in at them with
much amusement.
"If you knew what we'd been doing, you'd think I
ought to fuss over her, and both of us had a right to
rest! " answered Ben, rousing up as bright as a button;
for he longed to tell his thrilling tale, and had
with difficulty been restrained from bursting in on
Thorny as soon as he arrived.
He made short work of the story, but was quite
satisfied with the sensation it produced; for his
listener was startled, relieved, excited and charmed,
in such rapid succession, that he was obliged to sit
upon the meal-chest and get his breath before he
Could exclaim, with an emphatic demonstration of
his heels against the bin,--
"Ben Brown, I'll never forget what you've done
for Celia this day, or say 'bow-legs' again as long as
I live
"George! I felt as if I had six legs when we
were going the pace. We were all one piece, and
had a jolly spin, didn't we, my beauty?" and Ben
chuckled as he took Lita's head in his lap, while
she answered with a gusty sigh that nearly blew him
away.
Like the fellow that brought the good news from
Ghent to Aix," said Thorny, surveying the recumbent
pair with great admiration.
"What follow?" asked Ben, wondering if he didn't
mean Sheridan, of whose ride he had heard.
"Don't you know that piece? I spoke it at school.
Give it to you now; see if it isn't a rouser."
And, glad to find a vent from his excitement, Thorny
mounted the meal-chest, to thunder out that stirring
ballad with such spirit that Lita pricked up her ears
and Ben gave a shrill "Hooray!" as the last verse
ended.
"And all I remember is friends flocking round,
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from
Ghent." _
Read next: CHAPTER XVI. DETECTIVE THORNTON
Read previous: CHAPTER XIV. SOMEBODY GETS LOST
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