Tag or The Chien Boule Dog

Front matter

TAG; OR, THE CHIEN BOULE DOG

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"A WILD THREE-CORNERED CONVERSATION ENSUED." (See page 7.)

Chapter I

“Oh, leetle Bateese wat for, Oh, leetle Bateese wat for, Oh, leetle Bateese Wat for you grease Mine leetle dog’s tail wit tar.”

These words, sung to a monotonous and unbeautiful tune, smote the ears of the occupants of a train as it suddenly came to a standstill before a lonely wooden structure in the province of Quebec. As the engine blew off steam the invisible singer roared anew, as if in opposition,

“Oh, leetle Bateese wat for, Oh, leetle Bateese—”

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A second’s pause, then the figure of a man emerged from the building, followed by two little boys in ill-fitting clothes, each carrying a miniature telescope valise and having a cardboard tag attached to his neck by stout twine. One child was sallow and melancholy, the other rosy, plump and beamingly cheerful. The aspect of the sallow one took on an added shade of gloom when he was enjoined, in pantomime, not to move from the doorway while his companions made their way down the platform accompanied by a particularly ferocious looking bull dog. After some parley before the baggage car the canine was disposed of and man and boy retraced their steps to a first-class coach. Here an animated discussion took place with the conductor, a ticket exchanged hands, the small boy’s tag was read, he was lifted to the platform, “all aboard” was shouted, and the train moved out.

The conductor was good-natured and, seeing his charge struggling with tears, took him by the hand, saying, “Come along with me, sonny.”

And thus it was the plump little boy found “Pat and Patty.” They were so called by relatives and friends during their engagement, and now that they had been married ten whole days, Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Patterson wondered they had ever been known otherwise. Patty was wont to say she was “just Pat and a little more.” Pat and Patty were seated in the parlour car, ostensibly reading, but behind Patty’s novel an affair of the toilet was being carried on; she was furtively rubbing the “shine” off her dainty nose with “papier poudre,” while Pat, watching her unbeknownst, wondered if any other woman could have looked as fascinating under like circumstances. These innocent occupations were interrupted by the advent of the conductor and his companion. Patty, laying down “papier” and novel, smiled at the small boy, who brightened visibly.

“Poor little chap. Is he all alone?” she asked, and the conductor became confidential at once.

“He’s a little Frenchy,” he said, leaning over the end of the seat. “Been in some kind of a home for a year, poor kid, his ma’s dead, an’ his pa’s working in Noo York. He’s doin’ pretty well now, so he sent for the youngster. The sisters up at the Home give him an’ another kid in charge of the hired man back there an’ told him to write out these here tags an’ send ’em along. Let’s see your calling card, sonny—Got his Noo York address on it—huh! Jim’s fergot to put on his name—jest like him—but it’s Bateese—Bateese— Good Lord, if I ain’t fergot! What’s your name, sonny?”

“Bateese,” was the prompt reply.

“Bateese what?—go on —”

Bateese shook his head, smiled broadly and edged nearer Patty. “Don’t understand much English,” said the conductor, “but anyhow the address is O.K. an’ his dad’ll meet him. He’s got a dog on board, too, bandy-legged, wall-eyed bull with a hare lip. Don’t know how they come to let him have him at the Home. What’s the name of your dog, son?”

Bateese looked puzzled.

“Dog, chien boule dog—you know.”

The dark face lighted up. “Chien boule dog,” he repeated and laughed till his little fat sides shook.

“You are a dear,” said Patty, “come and sit by me.”

He knew the tone and gesture, and, with the fickleness of youth, turned his back upon his erstwhile friend and snuggled up to the smiling lady who had won his heart. According to himself his name was simply Bateese. Only that and nothing more, while the occupant of the baggage car was called “Cairlo.” As his shyness wore off he remembered his scanty English and a wild three-cornered conversation ensued. Pat would ponderously give vent to a sentence in French as she is spoke in the schools, to be met by a disconcerting stare from Bateese, upon which Patty would translate in a mixture of French in one lesson and habitant English gleaned during a summer holiday in a Quebec village. This was usually the more intelligible of the two, and Bateese would reply in a cheerful jargon of his own,—thus, from Pat:

“Parley vous Francaise ou Anglaise d’en l’ institution ou avez vous le—le silence?”

A wide stare from Bateese.

“He has le—le silence,” mocked Patty, then, coaxingly, “Bateese, you spik Angleesh some tam or you parley vous Francais toujour?”

“Spik Angleesh, me,” answered Bateese proudly, “an’ w’en garcon ’e say I not spik Angleesh I ponch heese eye.”

“By George, he’s a jolly little cuss,” said Pat, “if he only understood my French better.”

“You go to mak’ too moche on de Parisian,” quoted Patty, and they laughed. They continued to laugh at short intervals like three gay irresponsible children until the other occupant of the car looked amused out of sheer sympathy.

It was a regular love feast until they arrived at a refreshment station, when it became a banquet of a more substantial order. Bateese was hungry. The trio alighted, and being told the train would remain forty-five minutes owing to an obstruction on the line, and having seen Bateese fed to repletion at the lunch counter, they started down the platform. The door of the baggage car was open and Cairlo stood revealed in all his hideousness.

“Pretty thing for a lap dog,” commented illustrationPage9 Pat, while Bateese jumped in frantic efforts to reach his pet. Standing with bandy legs well apart and huge head straining at his chain, Cairlo was a forbidding object, but the heart of Bateese yearned for him. In vain he was reasoned with, coaxed. He began to cry, gently at first, then, seeing the consternation on Patty’s face, his wail became a fearful howl. The baggage man appeared and took in the situation.

“Wants his purp, eh? Here, put him up an’ I’ll sit him on this trunk— illustrationPage10 There you are, kiddie!” Bateese became smiling and amiable at once. “The brute ain’t half as savage as you’d think. Not much mor’n a pup, and kind of affectionate disposition.”

It would seem so, for as Pat and Patty resumed their walk Bateese and his pet were leaning shoulder to shoulder, the small boy’s arm about Cairlo’s neck. There were further delays in starting, and it was an hour later when the bridal couple went to look at their protégé. He was asleep in the attitude they had last seen him, and the bull-dog wore a silly, apologetic expression as he wagged his tail at their approach. Bateese awoke. Having dug his knuckles in his eyes and yawned, he murmured,

“I’m not feel ver’ bon en bas,” laying his fat hands tragically on his leather belt.

“It’s the cream puffs. I told you not to give him three, Pat, and he has cream all over his neck, too— Come here, Bateese, until I wipe you off.”

Bateese moved heavily; the sin of gluttony had brought worse pangs than those of remorse in its wake. A porter, coming up at the moment, remarked briskly, “Leaving at once, sah,” and seeing the child, lifted him down and ran him along the platform at a good pace with Pat and Patty following.

They were safely aboard, the train was moving, and Patty was soothing the outraged infant whose soul had cried for peace and been so rudely disturbed, when Pat, leaning over, looked first puzzled, then anxious.

“Bateese, where is your tag?” lifting the empty string about the child’s neck, “tag, votre tiquette ou est il?”

Bateese answered in a tone laden with sleep,

“Carlo, ’e lak de crème on dat tiquette—mebbe Cairlo ’e—” He yawned audibly and his black head thudded onto the lap of Patty. He was at rest.

“That thing had his address on it,” said Pat a little uneasily. “Guess I'll go and hunt up our friend the conductor.”

Returning some time later he said with solemn emphasis,

“Patty, that conductor has gone back on another train and the present one never even heard of a Bateese. The baggage man knows nothing, the porter less, and I’m blamed if I remember even the name of the street— Do you? Think hard.”

His wife shook her head slowly. “But, Pat, do you mean to say—”

“That we have a small, fat, French unknown on our hands for Heaven knows how long, and we on our way to spend a giddy honeymoon in gay New York. That’s what I mean.” His emphasis was bitter.

For a moment Patty looked wild consternation, then the corners of her mouth began to curl up. “To say nothing of the chien boule dog,” she added with a Frenchy lift of eyebrows and shoulders.

“D—, er, hang the boule dog,” said her husband viciously. “All the same he is the only one with inside information on the subject. By George, Patty, you know it—its—”

They gazed at each other mutely for some seconds, then Pat’s eyes twinkled, he threw back his head and haw-hawed till the car resounded with his mirth. His bride joined him and they were almost choking when Bateese raised his head and fretfully exclaimed, “I don’ go mak de laf on you w’en you not feel ver’ nice en bas!”

“If you only knew it, Bateese,” said Pat, “the laugh is on us, and we are doing it for you, and you ought to be mighty grateful.”

But Bateese was asleep.

Chapter II

The next morning found the waif looking as joyously rotund as ever and not one whit elated by the fact that he had slept in a drawing room section. His protectors were fresh and smiling also, having decided that all they required to do upon their arrival at the station was to march slowly round the waiting room with Bateese well in evidence until an eager French father should dash forward and snatch his child to his bosom. They would then stand by with smiles of benevolence and, waving aside the parent’s fervid blessing, would kiss dear little Bateese, shake his father’s honest hand, and gracefully withdraw. It was the imagining of this drama which kept Mr. Patterson serene in spite of the enormous breakfast eaten by Bateese, “a la carte,” this and the sight of his bride daintily arrayed for the conquest of the metropolis and with the light of anticipation in her eyes. Red brown eyes they were, almost the colour of the wavy hair above, and her skin was very smooth and very white in contrast to the vivid red of her lips with their corners curling up for laughter on the slightest provocation—like the petals of a flower, cup-shaped to receive the sun. Of a verity she was good to look upon.

Having alighted in the humming New York station, the bride and groom proceeded to carry out their plan. Bateese, frightened and dazed by the noise and jostling of the crowd, was glad to be placed between them, clinging to a hand of each, and thus they walked with methodical slowness over every foot of the huge waiting room; Pat and Patty stiffening their arms to thrust the small boy well for , as if mutely offering him to the public. He was instructed to call out upon sight of his father, while they keenly scanned the throng for a lone man with an expression of yearning illustrationPage18 parenthood. Trains came and went, the crowds surged in and out, families were disunited or made complete according to the time table, and still Bateese remained fatherless. Officials were interviewed; no one had seen a Frenchman who looked as if he had lost his one ewe lamb, no inquiries had been made. They had marched through the station illustrationPage19 so often they were all weary when an awful suspicion dawned upon the bride

they were, perhaps, the victims of a well designed plot and no father would ever claim Bateese. As time wore on the suspicion became a horrible certainty in his mind, but he forbore to mention it. After two fruitless hours they seated themselves to discuss the situation. Patty had an idea. She would take their protégé to the matron in charge of the ladies’ waiting room, leave money with her for his lunch, and request that he be handed over to his father when that person appeared to claim him. They were surprised they had not thought of such a simple arrangement long ago. A few moments later Patty was interviewing a prim-faced matron. The little boy’s father had failed to meet him, she stated, but would arrive later, and if the matron would kindly take him in charge until that time and see that he was provided with food if necessary (here a frivolous little metal purse came into

play) Patty would be most grateful. The radiant smile which terminated this speech failed to produce any softening expression in response; the listener merely asked for the name of the little boy and some description of the father whereby he might be identified.

“Well, we don’t know his name, you see—only Bateese. He was put on the train by some man and we—well, we just happened to get him.”

“I suppose he was given in charge of the conductor. Why didn’t you leave him with him?” Evidently the woman was not favourably impressed.

“The conductor left the train, you see, and the other men knew nothing about him.”

“Oh!” said the matron and looked intently into space.

“He was sent from a Home of some kind, poor baby,” added Patty in pathetic accents.

“Oh, then,” brightening, “of course he has a tag with his address somewhere about him. Those institutions always use something or that kind.” She fastened an X ray eye on Bateese as if to penetrate the innermost recesses of his plump person and discover this appendage.

“Why, of course, he had a tag on,” began Patty promptly, “but,” here her unruly lips curled up and a twinkle danced in her eye— “his dog—a chien boule dog he is—chewed it up, and so—”

The woman’s icy tones broke in,

“I would advise you to see the police about it, madam. I don’t care to be mixed up in anything of the kind.” Whereupon she drew herself up and walked resolutely away, leaving the astonished and indignant Patty to grasp Bateese’s hand and drag him back to where Pat was soothing his spirit with a good cigar and the reflection that in about one hour he and his bride would be enjoying a cosy tête-à-tête luncheon in one of the city’s palatial hotels. His jaw fell when he saw his wife racing excitedly towards him with the small boy trotting in her wake

“Horrid creature! She won’t keep him; said to take him to the police; she was positively clammy about it!” Patty was breathing hard and her cheeks were pink with wrath.

Her husband whistled, looked sadly at the weed in his hand as if asking where was now its solace, then suggested he should speak to the station master and see if he would put forth the hand of fellowship. So leaving Bateese pledged not to move from his bench, they bearded the busy official. Pat told the tale of their enforced adoption of the small unknown quite eloquently until he reached the point where Cairlo came in. Then he hesitated, cleared his throat, and stated that an “accident” had deprived the young traveller of the tag whereon was his address.

“What was the nature of the accident?” asked the official curtly.

Pat hesitated. Patty grew flushed and anxious. She was not doing any smiling or twinkling now.

The station master looked keenly from one to the other, and as Pat could think of nothing else to say but the truth, he told it frankly, ending with,

“I know it sounds foolish, but foolish things do happen.”

“That’s right,” assented the railway man with marked emphasis, “They happen round here mighty often.” Then he added musingly, “A French kid, name unknown, put on train by man, also unknown, at unknown station; nameless conductor transfers kid to young couple—name unknown,” (this with a bow) “and disappears. Kid’s dog—by the way,” with cheerful interest, “has the dog a name?— Kid’s dog, nameless—buries the secret of the lost child’s parentage in innermost recesses of his being. Unknown father fails to claim offspring and I am asked to assume his duties. Ever been in New York before?” he asked irrelevantly.

Mrs. Patterson moved away, her head at a haughty angle, and before her husband could frame an angry reply the older man exchanged his tone of banter for one sternly businesslike.

“Let me give you a piece of advice, young man,” he said. “Don’t pipe that tune oftener than you can help in little old New York unless you want to find yourself in the foolish house or the coop. I don’t know why you want to get rid of the youngster and I ain’t goin’ to ask, but if you can think up any kind of a fairy tale that would go in the nursery, waltz over to the police station and tell it. That’s all. Good morning,” and he swung off whistling “Since I first met you.”

Pat joined his bride with gloom upon his brow. They moved on in silence for a moment, then she said,

“I suppose we will just have to go to the police now and tell that ridiculous story all over again.”

“We can’t go to the police!” savagely exclaimed the partner of her woes. “I see now how utterly improbable the whole thing sounds; they would run us in for child desertion or kidnapping, whichever crime called for the higher fine— And where would our honeymoon be then!” Their young faces were tragic. “Darn the luck—let’s skin off and leave the little beggar. We didn’t want him anyhow.”

Just here they sighted a mourner’s bench whereon was seated a small, plump figure looking so weary, so patiently forlorn, their hearts smote them.

“The poor, wee, lost thing,” murmured Patty, and Pat gave her arm a surreptitious and responsive squeeze. “We'll have to take him with us to-day, dearest, and we'll advertise, put his picture in the paper or something,” and she kissed Bateese in her contrition.

“We will get a cab,” said Pat. Somehow the zest had gone from things and he felt flat and tired.

As they turned to go Patty spelled on her fingers, “D-O-G.” Her husband’s face hardened.

“No,” he answered, loudly and emphatically. “Not if I know it.”

By some process of mental telepathy Bateese seemed to divine their meaning.

“Cairlo!” he cried, stopping short and looking about anxiously.

“Come, come, Bateese. Cairlo is all right. We are going to have a nice ride in a cab, and lunch—dejeuner,” coaxed the bridegroom.

But Bateese was obdurate, his face puckered, “Cairlo!” he cried again, “Don’ lak no dejeuner. Wan’ mon chien boule dog.”

They attempted to drag him away and he threw his small body flat on the floor and yelled with anguish. A crowd began to collect and Pat descried the station master looking their way.

“Get up, you little devil!” he muttered, at the same time jerking him to his feet. “I’ll get your confounded pup,” and he strode off in the direction of the baggage room.

Some moments later, as the now smiling but tear-stained Bateese and his bull pet were being stowed into a four wheeler, a distracted Frenchman ran from an adjacent subway, headed for the main door of the depot. His eye was caught and held by the back of Bateese in its ill-fitting uniform of the institution he had so recently left. He stopped as if frozen to the spot and gasped with open mouth until the cab man touched up his horse and the vehicle moved off at a brisk pace, whereupon he clapped his hand to his head, looked around wildly as if seeking assistance, then started in pursuit.

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Chapter III

As the gold-laced autocrat of the kerb went forward from the “Everleigh” doorway to welcome the latest arrivals, he raised his haughty eyebrows. He had caught the sound of a child’s voice, and if there was one evil which the “Everleigh” religiously eschewed it was children. His manner was cold as he assisted the party to alight and watched them trail into the lobby. First a tall man with head well erect, at his heels a, vicious pie-faced bull dog, then a young and remarkably pretty girl, leading by the hand a weary child clad in clothes such as sweet charity alone would have the heart to envelop him. The hotel clerk decided upon his course the moment the group appeared in the doorway. The “Everleigh” apartments, he informed them with lofty patronage, were rented only in suites engaged previous to arrival and for a stated term, illustrationPage31 he therefore regretted he could not accommodate them. After listening to the remonstrances of the leader of the party for a few bored moments he slowly, reluctantly, but firmly turned his back upon them. Mr. Patterson’s jaw grew visibly squarer as he met this rebuff, but, after a moment’s hesitation, he followed his wife toward the door. The bull-dog, however, had endured a trying journey and was not accustomed to cabs. He decided to stay where he was for a time and rest. Thus Pat’s dignified stride was brought to a sudden stop by the tug of Cairlo’s chain and he yanked viciously at it in vain. Cairlo sat firm, bandy legs well apart, blear eyes fixed and staring. Groups of men in the rotunda turned to watch the scene with visible amusement. Pat took the brute by the collar and dragged him a step or two, but it was hot work, for Cairlo’s powers of resistance were great; gentle persuasion proved equally fruitless. Pat became conscious of flattering notice from all sides and suspended his campaign while he lighted a cigar with an easy air designed to announce to the world that the coercion of balky bull-dogs was his favourite pastime; so leisurely and calm was he that interest flagged and observation was withdrawn. And now, with the light of dire purpose in his eye, he leaned down suddenly, unloosed the chain, stuffed it in his overcoat pocket, and strolled toward the front door; before he arrived there the unctuous voice of the clerk reached him,

“Mr.—er—ah— Will you kindly—”

A hand was laid upon his arm.

“’Scuse me, sir,” said a porter, politely struggling to hide his grin, “You’ve forgotten your dog.”

Mr. Patterson’s hand instinctively sought his change pocket, but the authorities were too near. Assuming a stony countenance, he turned and called Cairlo; low at first, then in tones of sharp command. The graven image of a dog never stirred. Every occupant of the large and busy rotunda was now deeply engrossed in watching the scene. Bets were laid on the outcome, but the determined set of Cairlo’s jaw did not invite interference. The courteous porter barred the way; evidently if the dog stayed the master did lkewise. The situation grew desperate. At any moment Patty and Bateese might appear, the former he knew would take in the situation and laugh, and all those darned idiots of men would laugh with her, while Bateese would probably divine treachery and shriek for his “chien boule dog.” Heroic measures were necessary, so retracing his steps to the side of the scowling animal, Pat gave a quick movement of muscular shoulder and raised the stubborn bulk in his arms. The dazed beast offered no resistance, and as the bridegroom stalked off with the dog’s delicate retrousse countenance nodding over one shoulder a shout of hilarious mirth went up from the bystanders and his exit was made under a fire of raillery. Cries of “Love me, love my dog.” “Where was your illustrationPage35 pup raised?” “Is that what you call the dog tax?” pursued him to the steps, where he dropped the now submissive Cairlo with unnecessary violence, and, later, threw him into the cab with no gentle hand. Patty had heard the roars of laugh and caught a glimpse of the sudden descent of the bull-dog, but a look at her husband’s face decided her that silence was golden—a decision wondrous wise for a bride of ten days. They visited many, many hotels after this, working their way down from palaces to quiet hostelries in side streets, and though, in one or two instances, Bateese and the pup were concealed until rooms had been secured, yet, when the inevitable moment arrived that they must be produced, a miraculous slip of memory smote the conscience of the clerk. Those apartments (the only vacant ones in the house) were already engaged. Astounding thing how he could have forgotten; he was profusely apologetic but would have to keep to his original agreement. Cairlo’s cannibal visage was too much for them all. Hours passed, miles were traversed, and in proportion as the spirits of the occupants of the cab drooped did the complacency of the driver increase. He whistled with a very insolence of joy when given the tenth address, and, at the eleventh, broke into song. Once the bridegroom grimly remarked that the Pound or Home for Lost Dogs seemed to be the only remaining institution to be visited, and that, on promise of good behaviour, they might be accommodated there to keep Cairlo company. At length, upon Patty’s suggestion, they were driven to the sober precincts of the Y.W.C.T.U., where they fondly hoped to hear of some respectable Christian family which would gather weary wanderers to its bosom. The now white and anxious bride told the secretary how she, her husband, one little boy, —very well behaved, —and a small dog were looking for quiet temporary lodgings. The secretary was grave over the dog. Of course most landladies objected to children too, but she would look over her list. Patty sank into a chair feeling as if her life were at stake. The reprieve came. The secretary looked up with a beaming smile. She had the very thing. A widow, quiet house and locality, two front rooms with breakfast if desired. After a short conference over the telephone she confirmed the good news. “Mrs. Trent will be glad to rent the apartments, won't object to the little dog if kept in the basement and is fond of children.” The secretary smiled as she added, “She helps us with our work when she has time, and is a nice motherly woman with strong views against race-suicide.”

“Bless her heart!” exclaimed Patty as she took the address. She almost danced out to the cab, and Pat promised to add a half dollar to the driver’s already swollen tariff if he took them to this last address in half an hour.

“She has strong antirace-suicide views, Pat,” quoted his wife, laughing.

“Darlint,” he rejoined with solemnity, “Bateese is the child of our tenderest care. All our hopes are centred in his plump carcass and our only aim in life is to rear him to noble manhood.” He winked at Bateese, who screwed up his black eyes and chuckled sleepily as if he were privy to the jest. Now that lodgings were in sight Bateese and the chien boule dog assumed the aspect of a huge joke; a Frenchy joke; a sort of “double entendre.”

It seemed too marvellous to be true when they actually obtained admittance to the widow's abode. It was a beautiful home to them, a very nest of peace and a haven from the cruel, jostling world which loves not little boys and bull-dogs. The door closed on sounds of a rollicking song from the enriched cab man and they were led to the first floor front by a neat and smiling landlady, who, before leaving, stooped to pat the head of Bateese.

“And how old might he be, ma’am?” she asked.

Patty hesitated and then came a dual answer.

“Five,” said Patty.

“Seven,” said Pat.

They paused in confusion and the landlady came to the rescue, saying with a nod at Pat, “Now ain’t that just like these men; their heads is so full of business they don’t even remember the ages of their own children. So he is five. He is fine an’ fleshy for his age; a healthy one, I guess.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Patty, looking out of the window.

“What is your name, my little man?” But Bateese was yawning and speechless.

“He is called Baptiste,” said Patty, “a French name, you know.”

“Well now!” exclaimed the well meaning landlady, “you don’t look like French folk.”

“He was called after a relative,” said Patty faintly, adding in firmer but sweet tones, “Thank you so much, Mrs. Trent, we won’t want anything more just now.”

The widow took her dismissal with good grace, and left the room. A few moments later one might have seen a small boy sleeping oblivious on a couch while two dishevelled young people danced noiselessly round the room, stopping only when weak with laughter to throw themselves on the nearest chairs, wipe their eyes and chokingly recount some experience of that seemingly interminable day.

And Cairlo? He brooded darkly in solitary confinement in the basement and remorse illustrationPage42 gnawed at his vitals as he thought of the pick-me-up he had accepted at the “Everleigh” which was the cause of this base ignominy.