Peace on Earth, Good-will to Dogs | Page 5

that triumph.
"Mother's never let me have any dogs," she confided. "Mother thinks
they're not--Oh, of course, I realize that four dogs is a--a good many,"
she hastened diplomatically to concede to a certain sudden droop
around the old Butler's mouth corners.
From his slow, stooping poke of the sulky fire the old Butler glanced
up with a certain plaintive intentness.
"All dogs is too many," he affirmed.
"Come Christmas time I wishes I was dead."

"Wish you were dead ... at Christmas Time?" cried Flame. Acute shock
was in her protest.
"It's the feedin'," sighed the old Butler. "It ain't that I mind eatin' with
them on All Saints' Day or Fourth of July or even Sundays. But come
Christmas Time it seems like I craves to eat with More Humans.... I got
a nephew less'n twenty miles away. He's got cider in his cellar. And
plum puddings. His woman she raises guinea chickens. And mince pies
there is. And tasty gravies.--But me I mixes dog bread and milk--dog
bread and milk--till I can't see nothing--think nothing but mush. And
him with cider in his cellar!... It ain't as though Mr. Delcote ever came
himself to prove anything," he argued. "Not he! Not Christmas Time!
It's travelling he is.... He's had ... misfortunes," he confided darkly. "He
travels for 'em same as some folks travels for their healths. Most
especially at Christmas Time he travels for his misfortunes! He ..."
"Mr. Delcote?" quickened Flame. "Mr. Delcote?" (Now at last was the
mysterious tenancy about to be divulged?)
"All he says," persisted the old Butler. "All he says is 'Now
Barret,'--that's me, 'Now Barret I trust your honor to see that the dogs
ain't neglected just because it's Christmas. There ain't no reason, Barret',
he says, 'why innocent dogs should suffer Christmas just because
everybody else does. They ain't done nothing.... It won't do now Barret',
he says, 'for you to give 'em their dinner at dawn when they ain't
accustomed to it, and a pail of water, and shut 'em up while you go off
for the day with any barrel of cider. You know what dogs is, Barret', he
says. 'And what they isn't. They've got to be fed regular', he says, 'and
with discipline. Else there's deaths.--Some natural. Some unnatural.
And some just plain spectacular from furniture falling on their
arguments. So if there's any fatalities come this Christmas Time, Barret',
he says, 'or any undue gains in weight or losses in weight, I shall infer,
Barret', he says, 'that you was absent without leave.' ... It don't look like
a very wholesome Christmas for me," sighed the old Butler. "Not either
way. Not what you'd call wholesome."
"But this Mr. Delcote?" puzzled Flame. "What a perfectly horrid man
he must be to give such heavenly dogs nothing but dog-bread and milk

for their Christmas dinner!... Is he young? Is he old? Is he thin? Is he
fat? However in the world did he happen to come to a queer, battered
old place like the Rattle-Pane House? But once come why didn't he stay?
And--And--And--?"
"Yes'm," sighed the old Butler.
In a ferment of curiosity, Flame edged jerkily forward, and subsided as
jerkily again.
"Oh, if this only was a Parish Call," she deprecated, "I could ask
questions right out loud. 'How? Where? Why? When?' ... But being just
a social call--I suppose--I suppose...?" Appealingly her eager eyes
searched the old Butler's inscrutable face.
"Yes'm," repeated the old Butler dully. Through the quavering fingers
that he swept suddenly across his brow two very genuine tears
glistened.
With characteristic precipitousness Flame jumped to her feet.
"Oh, darn Mr. Delcote!" she cried. "I'll feed your dogs, Christmas Day!
It won't take a minute after my own dinner or before! I'll run like the
wind! No one need ever know!"
So it was that when Flame arrived at her own home fifteen minutes
later, and found her parents madly engaged in packing suit-cases,
searching time-tables, and rushing generally to and fro from attic to
cellar, no very mutual exchange of confidences ensued.
"It's your Uncle Wally!" panted her Mother.
"Another shock!" confided her Father.
"Not such a bad one, either," explained her Mother. "But of course
we'll have to go! The very first thing in the morning! Christmas Day,
too! And leave you all alone! It's a perfect shame! But I've planned it
all out for everybody! Father's Lay Reader, of course, will take the

Christmas service! We'll just have to omit the Christmas Tree surprise
for the children!... It's lucky we didn't even unpack the trimmings! Or
tell a soul about it." In a hectic effort to pack both a thick coat and a
thin coat and a thick dress and a thin dress and thick boots and thin
boots in the