Where the Blue Begins | Page 5

in stature, and could not reach up to the place where
the rack was screwed over the sink. Like all people whose minds are
very active, Gissing hated to attend to little details like this. It was a
weakness in his character. Fuji had asked him six times to fix the rack,
but Gissing always pretended to forget about it. To appease his
methodical butler he had written on a piece of paper FIX DISHCLOTH
RACK and pinned it on his dressing-table pincushion; but he paid no
attention to the memorandum.
He went out into a green April dusk. Down by the pond piped those
repeated treble whistlings: they still distressed him with a mysterious
unriddled summons, but Mike Terrier had told him that the secret of
respectability is to ignore whatever you don't understand. Careful
observation of this maxim had somewhat dulled the cry of that shrill
queer music. It now caused only a faint pain in his mind. Still, he
walked that way because the little meadow by the pond was agreeably

soft underfoot. Also, when he walked close beside the water the voices
were silent. That is worth noting, he said to himself. If you go directly
at the heart of a mystery, it ceases to be a mystery, and becomes only a
question of drainage. (Mr. Poodle had told him that if he had the pond
and swamp drained, the frog-song would not annoy him.) But to-night,
when the keen chirruping ceased, there was still another sound that did
not cease--a faint, appealing cry. It caused a prickling on his shoulder
blades, it made him both angry and tender. He pushed through the
bushes. In a little hollow were three small puppies, whining faintly.
They were cold and draggled with mud. Someone had left them there,
evidently, to perish. They were huddled close together; their eyes, a
cloudy unspeculative blue, were only just opened. "This is gruesome,"
said Gissing, pretending to be shocked. "Dear me, innocent pledges of
sin, I dare say. Well, there is only one thing to do."
He picked them up carefully and carried them home.
"Quick, Fuji!" he said. "Warm some milk, some of the Grade A, and
put a little brandy in it. I'll get the spare-room bed ready."
He rushed upstairs, wrapped the puppies in a blanket, and turned on the
electric heater to take the chill from the spare-room. The little pads of
their paws were ice-cold, and he filled the hot water bottle and held it
carefully to their twelve feet. Their pink stomachs throbbed, and at first
he feared they were dying. "They must not die!" he said fiercely. "If
they did, it would be a matter for the police, and no end of trouble."
Fuji came up with the milk, and looked very grave when he saw the
muddy footprints on the clean sheet.
"Now, Fuji," said Gissing, "do you suppose they can lap, or will we
have to pour it down?"
In spite of his superior manner, Fuji was a good fellow in an emergency.
It was he who suggested the fountain-pen filler. They washed the ink
out of it, and used it to drip the hot brandy-and-milk down the puppies'
throats. Their noses, which had been icy, suddenly became very hot and
dry. Gissing feared a fever and thought their temperatures should be

taken.
"The only thermometer we have," he said, "is the one on the porch,
with the mercury split in two. I don't suppose that would do. Have you
a clinical thermometer, Fuji?"
Fuji felt that his employer was making too much fuss over the matter.
"No, sir," he said firmly. "They are quite all right. A good sleep will
revive them. They will be as fit as possible in the morning."
Fuji went out into the garden to brush the mud from his neat white
jacket. His face was inscrutable. Gissing sat by the spare-room bed
until he was sure the puppies were sleeping correctly. He closed the
door so that Fuji would not hear him humming a lullaby. Three Blind
Mice was the only nursery song he could remember, and he sang it over
and over again.
When he tiptoed downstairs, Fuji had gone to bed. Gissing went into
his study, lit a pipe, and walked up and down, thinking. By and bye he
wrote two letters. One eras to a bookseller in the city, asking him to
send (at once) one copy of Dr. Holt's book on the Care and Feeding of
Children, and a well-illustrated edition of Mother Goose. The other was
to Mr. Poodle, asking him to fix a date for the christening of Mr.
Gissing's three small nephews, who had come to live with him.
"It is lucky they are all boys," said Gissing. "I would know nothing