Under the Lilacs (19 page)

“We must not laugh anymore, or these naughty children will think they have done something very clever in running away,” said
Miss Celia, when the fun subsided, adding soberly, “I
am
displeased, but I will say nothing, for I think Ben is already punished enough.”

“Guess I am,” muttered Ben, with a choke in his voice as
he glanced toward the empty mat where a dear curly bunch used to lie with a bright eye twinkling out of the middle of it.

C
HAPTER
15

G
reat 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 lookout 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
dog
-wood 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 goodwill.

“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
anything 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 hurry.

“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 reconnoitered, 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 little 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, and the good fellow was so grateful 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 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 anything, 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 anyone 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 he 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! Grazie, 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 poor 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 everything 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.

“Maybe 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 miles 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.