Me and Andy, a boy and a dog story

Front matter

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.V i

Chapter One

I ’M GOING to tell you, as well as I can, about the trip that my dog, Andy, and I took right after Dad died. Of course, I can’t tell all of it, or I’d never get it into a book short enough for anyone to bother with reading; so I’ll just tell the principal things. But first, I’ll tell about Mother and Dad and Andy.

It won’t take me so very long to tell you all I know about Mother, I having been only a few weeks old when she died. But I have a photograph of her, and I’ve heard Dad talk about her a little, when he hadn’t been drinking, and so wasn’t ashamed of himself. That was Dad’s only bad fault. He did drink sometimes.

Mother’s picture shows her sitting in a straight-back chair, and holding some flowers and a long, white roll of paper in her lap. The paper was her wedding diploma, I guess. Her face was the sweet¬ est one that ever was, and her hair was like a crown above it, for it was braided and then wrapped about her head. I suppose that bobbed hair is all right, but I’m sort of glad, when I look at Mother’s

Me md Andy.

picture, that it hadn’t come into style in her day. She was prettier the way she was. Her dress was very pretty, too. It was all white, and came clear down to the floor, with just the tips of her little, white shoes sticking out from under it. The sleeves were almost as big as a whole dress is now days, but somehow they seemed to belong in the picture, and not to be funny at all.

Dad thought a lot of that picture. Usually he kept it on the shelf by the clock, but when he’d been drunk he would hide it a few days. I guess he was ashamed to face Mother’s picture, when he’d been acting in a way that he knew would have hurt her, if she had been alive. When he had drink in him. Dad was sort of rough, like most of the men at the freight-house where he worked, but when he was sober he had good manners, and was polite, even to me. When he got very drunk, he was still dif¬ ferent, and would walk up and down our room re¬ citing poetry. Lots of it was in Latin, or Greek, or some other language that I couldn’t understand, but it sounded fine, and the way that words rolled was just beautiful.

I liked that kind of poetry, but I liked it bet¬ ter when Dad would pretend that he was a fellow named Hamlet, or another one called Macbeth. Both of these fellows were kings, or dukes, or some such

Chapter One folks, and they had a wonderful time of it, mak¬ ing long-winded speeches, killing folks, and raising Old Harry generally. You could just see them for yourself, when Dad got to going it good.

Dad had an old fiddle, too, and sometimes he’d play it for hours at a stretch. Most of his tunes were sort of sad-like and lonesome, but not all of them. Once in a while, that old fiddle would fairly laugh and talk, as though it was so happy it just couldn’t stand it. Both kinds of music were pretty, but I liked the happy kind the best. Sometimes the family that lived in the front half of the attic would pound on the wall for Dad to stop, but he always pretended it was only applause and kept right on.

By and by, Dad would lay down his fiddle and would drop off to sleep in his chair. Then I’d roll him up on our bed, take his shoes off and cover him up. He’d be good to sleep for at least sixteen hours; so I’d get what was left of his money, and then Andy and I’d go down to the Greek’s at Fortyseventh Street for a regular meal. Dad had told me to do that, for he was awfully good to me when he was sober, and was terribly ashamed of having been drunk. While I was looking for the money, Andy would sit watching me, with his head cocked on one side; he was terribly disappointed if I didn’t find any money. Usually I did, though. Once I found five dollars, and Andy and I ate high for three days.

I didn’t go to school as much as I ought to have done in those days, and I didn’t like it much, when I did go, because most of the fellows were sort of hostile. Besides, I couldn’t take Andy. The teach¬ ers in that school weren’t any too friendly, either. Once, one of them slapped me, because she thought that I was lying to her when I said that I wasn’t chewing gum. I wasn’t lying, because it wasn’t gum, but an old rubber band. I didn’t care much for it, but I’d had no breakfast that morning, and it’s easier to get along empty when you chew on something. But that was none of her business; so when she insisted on knowing why I was working my jaws, if I wasn’t chewing gum, I just set my teeth and said nothing. So I was expelled for being stubborn, and I was glad of it, because I didn’t like that school, anyhow. I got to be almost as good at dodging the truant officer as Andy was at keeping out of the way of dog-catchers.

Andy’s a mighty good dog, and always was. He started out in life to be an Airedale, but he forgot to stop growing at the right time, and his hair got too long around his neck, which discouraged him, I guess. But he weighs eighty-eight pounds, and he can lick lots of fancy dogs that think they’re bet-

Chapter One ter than he is, when they’re not. Dogs are a lot like folks that way.

Of course, Andy’s size is one thing that makes people stop to look at him, but he’s different from most dogs in other ways, too. He’s a gentleman, and no one needs a second look to tell that. You can see from the very way he walks that he fears no man or dog in the world, but his eyes are as gentle as a puppy’s. Those great teeth can crush a beef knuckle; yet a baby can walk up to him and pull his ears while he’s eating, and he’ll not even growl at it. As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen Andy angry, except when he’s had to defend either himself or me. He’s terrible then.

Andy’s honest, too; he never did steal, except, maybe, when he was hungry and couldn’t find any garbage pails open, or else in winter when they were all frozen up. He’s smart, too, and could do lots of tricks when he was younger. He could now, if he wanted to, but since he hasn’t had to hustle for his meals he’s been getting a bit fat and lazy. That’s another way that dogs are like folks.

D AD quit drinking all of a sudden, and began to be interested in me and in Andy. I never knew how he came to do it, for he never said a word about it; he just seemed to brace up and to be twice the man that he had been. He quit talk¬ ing rough, too, and shaved every day, instead of only on Sundays, and he pressed his clothes and shined his shoes. He was a fine looking man, but I’d never realized how much so before, because his face had been kind of puffy. Now, though, it was smooth and thin, tanned dark, but with a kind of paleness that seemed to shine through from under¬ neath. He was a very tall man, broad but thin and he had dark eyes and a perfect tangle of black hair. Black, that is, except next to his ears; it was gray there. When he walked, he carried himself very straight, and looked straight ahead of him. I was mighty proud of Dad. I can tell you, now that he’d slicked up. I’d always tried to be, but I didn’t have to try now. It was easy.

He quit the job at the freight-house, too, and got him another one. The new job was selling some¬ thing or other to stores and to offices, and I don’t think he made any more money than he had before, but he spent it in a different way, which was just as good as more money. For example; he got new suits of clothes for each of us, and bought a license for Andy, so that I shouldn’t have to hide him when the dog-catchers came around. Take it all in all, we had things pretty fine those days, with meat and canned fruit in the house all the time and milk for me to drink. I had a clean blouse, too, for every day in the week except Saturday. But I had to go to school regular.

I didn’t mind that so very much now, though, for things at school seemed to go better for me. My new teacher was nice to me, and the boys weren’t hostile any more. Funny, isn’t it, what a differ¬ ence a few new clothes can make in the way most people treat you? I was rather behind in my school work, on account of having gone so little; so I used to bring all my books home and study at night by our table. It was pretty slow business at first, but Dad helped me whenever I got really stuck, which made things much pleasanter for me. I’d never known that Dad knew so much. Why, my teacher couldn’t hold a candle to him.

When I wasn’t needing his help, Dad would sit there by the table with his pipe and a book, some¬ times reading and smoking, but more often doing neither; just sitting, kind of watching me and dreaming-like. Andy would lie beside his chair then, looking up at Dad, and once in a while thump¬ ing his stubby tail on the floor to show that he ap¬ proved of things around there. He was wise, was Andy, and knew that Dad was different and more friendly. But Andy had to quit bringing bones into the house and I had to quit smoking. I quit cuss¬ ing too, seeing that Dad had, though I’d slip once in a while, especially at first. But I really did try to learn to talk more like Dad did and less like I had been doing.

Dad talked of moving to a better neighborhood as soon as he could get a bit of money saved up, and he told me that I might join the Boy Scouts and go camping with them that summer, if I wished. And he brought home a big piece of linoleum for the floor of our room, so that we might keep it cleaner. He got new bed-clothes, too. I tell you, life was pretty slick around our place those days; I had everything any of the fellows had, except a mother.

I might have known that it was too good to last. Dad came home one night in April, feeling kind of bad and coughing a little. I was out in the alley with Andy at the time, which was a way we’d had of late, when we knew he’d be coming soon; so we ran to meet him, and right away I saw that something was wrong with him. At first, just for a second, I thought that maybe he’d gone to drink¬ ing again, but I’d no sooner thought that than I became ashamed of myself, for I saw that it wasn’t true, but that he was sick.

There was one long flight of stairs that ran straight out into the back yard from our room in the attic, and they were pretty steep. There were thirty-four steps in that flight of stairs, and it must have taken Dad nearly five minutes to climb them that evening, even with me helping him. But we finally made it, and Dad let himself down into his chair, breathing hard and holding his hand as close as he could to the place under his shoulder blade, which was where he hurt worst.

“I didn’t get into the store, Jack,” said he, “so you’ll have to get something for supper.” Then he gave me a dollar, and Andy and I went out and fetched home a can of beans, some bread, and a lit¬ tle bottle of cream. There was some butter and some coffee on hand, and so I got things together and helped Dad to the table, where he drank a lit¬ tle coffee, but ate nothing. Then he lighted his pipe, but laid it down at once and asked me to help him into bed.

I noticed while I was helping him undress that Dad was terribly hot to the touch. He acted in ai peculiar way, too, and asked me to kiss him good¬ night, a thing I never remember his having done before. I thought it was kind of queer, but I did it, and he said I was a good boy. I knew better, of course, but I wouldn’t contradict him when he was so sick. Then he said, “How would you like to go to Missouri and live with your grandfather? You have one in a little town down there, you know.” I hadn’t known it before, and any other time I’d have been interested.

But just then, I couldn’t think of anything ex¬ cept the fact that Dad was so sick. So I never even asked the name of the town where my grand¬ father lived, but said, “No Sir; I’d rather stay right here, and live with you,” which seemed to please him, for he said, “Thank you, Jack,” and patted my hand. Then he turned his face to the wall and seemed to go to sleep.

I went back to my chair and picked up the eve¬ ning paper, and tried to read for a while, but it was no go. The room was too lonesome; so I gave it up and crawled into bed with Dad.

Along about three in the morning I waked up. Dad was tossing around too much for me to stay asleep any longer, and he was talking away to him¬ self in a queer, high voice. He kept saying, “Yes, yes, yes,” over and over again almost a hundred times in a row. Then he’d sing or whistle a little, but break off almost in the middle of a note to say, “I’m so happy.” He did that whole performance half a dozen times, without changing it one little bit. Then, just as I was beginning to think he’d never stop, he sat straight up in bed, pointed his finger across the room and said, “Very well, Gen¬ tlemen; you have my resignation, and I wish you every success. I’ll teach only what I believe. I’d rather be a day laborer than do otherwise. Good day, Gentlemen.” Then he got up from the bed and stood in the middle of the floor, sort of sway¬ ing there in the moon-light as though he were about to fall.

You can just bet your bottom dollar that I was more than scared then. I was out of bed quicker than you could say, “Jack Robinson,” and had lit the light. Dad’s eyes were all glazy, as though he was more than half asleep, but they were shiny too. At first he didn’t know what I was talking about, when I tried to get him to go back to bed. But, by and by, he understood me and minded me, as though he were a little child. He wasn’t able to lift his feet into bed, though; I had to do that.

When I’d got him sitting in the bed again, I noticed that his night-shirt was open over his chest and that on each side there was a spot that was flushed as red with fever as his face was. He was terribly hot all over; so I thought that maybe a big drink of water might help, and got it for him. He drank it almost at one gulp, and just let the glass fall to the bed, instead of handing it back to me.

/ thought maybe a drink of water might help

Then he reached up and took my face between his two hands and looked at me for a long time, as though he were puzzled. Finally, he said in a sur¬ prised way, “Why, it’s Jack, isn’t it? You’re a good boy, Jack. I’ll be all right in the morning.”

I told Andy to stay there with Dad, and then I jumped into my clothes a lot faster than I’d ever done before, slid down our stair rail, and cut through the alley for the doctor. He was such an awfully long time getting dressed that I went on home and waited there for him. When, at last, he came, he went all over Dad’s chest with a funny¬ looking sort of a telephone thing that had little rubber pipes running up to his ears. Then he shook his head in a very serious way, and said, “Double pneumonia.” That’s a fairly hard word but, at that, I guess I’ll never forget how to spell it.

For about half an hour, the doctor just sat there beside Dad, watching his face, and once in a while reaching over to feel his pulse. Every time he felt the pulse, the doctor would clear his throat a bit, and then shake his head again. Usually he’d mut¬ ter, “Not so good, not so good.” Finally, he seemed to have made up his mind about things, for he wrote a prescription and sent me out to get it filled. He said he’d wait there till I got back. I hurried as fast as I could, but the night man at the drug¬ store was even harder to rouse than the doctor had been, and was a bit cross, too, when he saw that he’d been waked to wait on a boy. The medicine was eighty-five cents, but there was quite a lot of it.

As soon as I got back to our room with the medi¬ cine, the doctor gave a dose of it to Dad and told me to give him another in three hours, if he was awake. “I’ll come back in a few hours,” said the doctor, and he did.

Dad was sick just three days, and then he died. Along towards the last, he kept thinking that Mother was sitting there beside him, but it was only the nurse that the doctor had brought in. Thinking that made Dad very happy, but it was sort of hard on me. Sometimes, I couldn’t quite stand it, and then I’d go out in the alley and talk to Andy for a while. He was an awfully fine man, Dad was, and there hadn’t anybody better try to tell me different.

There was some insurance in the freight-han¬ dlers’ union that hadn’t run out yet; so they came and gave Dad a fine funeral with flowers and a preacher and three automobiles. A lot of the men that Dad had worked with came, and so did some from the office he worked at after he left the freight-house. The man who ran the second-hand book store was there, too. After the funeral was over, I heard the preacher telling the boss of the Union that he’d attend to taking me into court, and having me put into a Home. I was scared stiff, when I heard that.

T HE reason I was so scared at the idea of being taken to court was that I’d already been there once, and knew better than to want to go again. It was all on account of old Behnke, the meat-mar¬ ket man.

You see, I’d gone into Behnke’s shop one time and asked him to let me have some sausage, or a little cold ham, or something, and I’d told him that I’d pay him, as soon as I could find Dad and get the money. That was before Dad had straightened up, you know. Well, I didn’t think I was asking for such a very big favor, because Behnke would get his money all right, and would sell some meat that otherwise he wouldn’t, but he didn’t look at it that way at all. He flared right up and yelled at me, “You get out of here, you little devil! You’re going to be a dead-beat, just like your old man. He owes me three dollars now that I’m never going to get.”

My, but that made me mad! It wasn’t true, either, because Dad never beat anybody in his life, even though he had to be a bit slow about paying, sometimes. It wasn’t the three dollars that made Behnke hate us at all. It was because Dad had laughed at Behnke one time when there was a crowd standing around.

Somehow or other, Behnke had got the notion into his head that he wanted to be a congressman. In fact, he was so sure he could be one, that he went and got him a wide, black hat and a long¬ tailed coat to wear on the street; so that when folks saw him they would know how he’d look down in Washington. Evenings, after his shop was closed, Behnke would put on his new outfit and walk up and down our street, stopping folks now and then to talk to them, and tell them what a fine congress¬ man he thought he would make. Naturally, he finally ran into Dad. As soon as Dad caught sight of Behnke in his new outfit, he was amused and asked where the tent was, pretending he thought Behnke was an actor in an Uncle Tom’s Cabin show. But Behnke explained to him that he wanted to go to Congress. “May I not rely upon your vote, Mr. Bradford?” he asked Dad. I’d never heard Behnke use words like that before, and they didn’t sound to me as though they really belonged to him. But Dad became very solemn, and took his hat off and stood with it under his arm.

“This is a most important matter, Sir,” said he in a very loud voice, which brought a small crowd around them. “Before I can vouchsafe you my ballot, Sir,” Dad went on, “I must know how you stand upon the burning issues of the hour.”

“I’m for a high tariff, a full dinner pail, and all the rights of the workingman,” answered Behnke, trying to look as solemn as Dad did.

“Excellent, Sir, excellent,” Dad boomed, “but there is another measure that is very close to my heart, and before I promise you my vote I must have your solemn pledge on that measure. You must promise me to work unceasingly for the re¬ peal of Mendel’s Law. That law, Sir, has done more harm than any other.”

“Then I’ll wipe it out,” said Behnke. “What does the law say?”

“That a jackass must have ears like his father’s,” answered Dad, and the crowd whooped. Nobody ever saw Behnke’s long-tailed coat again after that night, but Behnke never forgave Dad, and that’s why he called him a dead-beat to me.

I was so mad at Behnke’s calling my father a dead-beat that I wanted to do something mean to him. That’s a wrong way to feel, and I know it now, but just then I was too angry to think about that. So, when I got out in the street, I stood and looked around, trying to think of something to do to Behnke. It didn’t take me long to decide, either, for the things I needed were right at hand. They always are, when you’re about to do something you shouldn’t.

Right in front of his meat-market, Behnke had a barrel standing. The barrel was half filled with rabbits, and there were other rabbits hanging on the outside of it. They were frozen stiff, for it was winter at the time, but I managed to move them apart far enough to make room for a cat that had learned about automobiles too late to get any good from his lesson. I could have had a rabbit in trade for him, if I hadn’t been more honest than I was hungry, but I’m not that sort. I just hung the cat there and went on about my business.

But Mike Polska had seen me hang him there, and he went and told Behnke. So Behnke had me arrested, because everybody in the neighborhood was laughing at him again. Lots of people hate to be laughed at; I do, myself, and so does Andy.

As soon as Dad came home, every kid in the block ran to tell him I’d been locked up, and he came down to get me out. By good luck, it was his pay¬ day; so he left ten dollars with the man at the desk, and they let me out. Dad scolded me for what I’d done, but, when I told him how it hap¬ pened, he never said another word. He just took me into the nearest restaurant and bought me a square meal. He was that kind of a father. He laid off from his work to go to court with me the next day, too.

The court-room was upstairs over the police-sta¬ tion, and was a big room cut in half by a wooden rail. Only lawyers, witnesses and folks that had been arrested were allowed inside the rail. The others had to sit on the benches outside. Most of them looked as though they ought to be arrested, too. The judge sat up behind a high counter that had electric lights at each end. He didn’t have any wig, like judges always wear in pictures, but he needed one. I guess he couldn’t have afforded it, though, for he couldn’t have been getting much money for judging, because he had only half an eye¬ glass for each eye. The top halves were missing.

By and by, when I’d almost begun to think that the other cases were going to take all morning, they got around to mine, and the man who was helping the judge told me to raise my right hand and be sworn. I was glad then that there’d been other cases ahead of mine, for the man talked so fast that, if I hadn’t heard him half a dozen times already, I couldn’t have understood a word he was saying. As it was, I missed about half of it.

Then Behnke climbed up in a chair at the end of the counter, and told the judge and everybody there how mean I was and how Dad had insulted him about going to Congress. He was going along at a great rate, but the judge stopped him and told him to stick to the cat and the rabbits. That was pretty decent of the judge, I thought; so when it came to my turn to climb up into the chair and talk, I was real polite. Anyhow, I tried to be.

“What’s your name?” the judge asked me.

“Jack Bradford.”

“Did you hang that dead cat in front of this man’s store?”

“Yes,” said I.

“Say Sir to me,” said the judge. So I said it.

“That’s better,” said he. “Now tell me why you did this thing.”

“Because you told me to,” I answered, suppos¬ ing he was still talking about manners. But he wasn’t talking about manners at all any more. He was back to talking about that cat again. But how was I to know that?

“Confound your impudence!” he yelled at me. “I mean why did you hang that dead cat in front of this man’s store?”

“Because I don’t like him,” I said, which was the truth, exactly as I’d promised to tell it.

“Well, see here, young man,” said the judge to me. “You can’t go around playing dirty, disor¬ derly tricks on everybody you happen not to like.

If you ever are brought into my court again, I’ll put you in a school for bad boys and leave you there until you grow up. You may go now, but see to it that you don’t forget what I’ve told you.”

You can just bet that I didn’t forget, either, and when I heard that minister say he was going to take me into court, I said to myself real quiet-like, “You think you will.”

There wasn’t any room for me in the automo¬ biles that went out to the cemetery, on account of there being only three cars and so many important grown folks that had to ride, but it was all right with me, because I’d already said good-bye to Dad, and wanted just to be alone with Andy. Besides, I had to hurry up and clear out before that preacher got hold of me to take me into court. So, while they were climbing into the cars, I slipped away and went home.

Andy was waiting for me when I got there, and we went up-stairs together. I was glad to have him with me, too, for, though I’d already missed Dad a lot, it was a great deal worse to come into the room where I’d been so used to seeing him, and to realize that he’d never be there again. And, when I saw his pipe and the old coat he’d worn around the room evenings, I just sat down in his old chair and blubbered like a baby. I don’t care how big a fellow is, he can’t help crying at a time like that. I’d known for two days that Dad was gone, but it seemed then as though I’d only just found out what it all meant to me.