Читать книгу The Family at Red Roofs - Enid blyton - Страница 7

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The next excitement was the dog. The children had badgered their father continually since he had suggested a dog for them.

“I want a terrier,” said Peter. “They’re sharp and neat and trim.”

“Oh, no,” said Michael. “Let’s have a big dog—a fierce one, like an Alsatian. Or what about a Great Dane?”

“No,” said Mrs. Jackson decidedly. “Certainly not. Good gracious, a Great Dane in this little house would be ridiculous! Every time he sat down he’d rattle all the ornaments, and when he wagged his tail he’d send everything off the table!”

Shirley at once longed for a Great Dane. A dog that did things like that would be marvellous. Molly wanted a Sealyham. Prudence had a Sealyham, and it would be nice to have a dog like hers.

“Pooh! Always copy-catting that silly Prudence!” said Peter. “For goodness’ sake! Who wants a short-legged dog like that wandering about? Gracious, if its legs were much shorter they wouldn’t reach the ground!”

Shirley had not heard his joke before, and she squealed with laughter. Mrs. Jackson looked round humorously. “Everyone wants a different kind of dog! We shall have to get a mongrel, a mixture of all the different breeds!”

“No, thank you,” said Mr. Jackson decidedly. “I haven’t waited all these years to have a mongrel dog, nice as they can be. We’ll have a pedigree dog worthy of Red-Roofs.”

“What kind?” said Peter. But again nobody could agree. And then the dog itself decided for them!

It was Sunday afternoon and the six Jacksons had left Jenny Wren in charge of the house and had walked over the hill and down the other side, where one or two farmhouses were dotted about. Red and white cows were in the fields and sheep grazed on the hilltop.

They sat down beside the hedge and took out their tea. They had a lovely view in front of them. They munched their jam sandwiches and looked contentedly over the valley below and the hills rising beyond.

Shirley suddenly gave a squeal. “Oh! You bad, wicked dog! Oh, Mother, this dog has eaten my sandwiches. Oh, you bad dog, I’ll smack you!”

Everyone turned to look at the little thief who had crept through the hedge and had gobbled up poor Shirley’s sandwiches. It was nothing but a puppy, about ten weeks’ old—a black, silky cocker spaniel, with long drooping ears that almost touched the ground. He gazed mournfully at six accusing pairs of eyes. Then he unexpectedly rolled over on his back and lay there, quite still, his four paws in the air.

“Do you think that’s his way of saying he’s sorry?” said Shirley, in surprise. “It must be. Roll over, little dog. I’ve forgiven you. Oh, Mother, isn’t he sweet?”

He really was. He looked at them all with big, sad brown eyes, and his look melted everyone’s heart. Molly stroked his soft ears. Peter patted him. Michael tickled him. Shirley hugged him and he licked her cheek.

The spaniel would not leave them. He begged titbits from each of them in turn, he pawed their arms, he butted them with his black nose, he looked at them so meltingly that one and all thought him the most marvellous puppy they had ever seen.

“I think the person he belongs to is very, very lucky,” said Shirley, as they got up to go home. “You must go back to your home, now, puppy. We are going home too.”

But the puppy had no intention of going home. He liked this family. He liked their voices and their smell and the touch of their hands. He meant to go with them.

“Go home!” said everyone, but still the puppy followed them, his tail down and his eyes looking beseechingly at them. Mr. Jackson stopped in exasperation.

“This silly animal will go right home with us if we don’t send him off. I wonder whom he belongs to.”

“Let’s ask this shepherd,” said Molly, and she called to an old man in the field nearby. “Do you know whose puppy this is?”

“Aye, missie. He belongs to old Lassie’s last litter. Farmer Thomas owns him,” said the shepherd, and pointed with his stick to the farmhouse not far off.

“We’d better take him there,” said Mr. Jackson, so they all trooped across the field-path that led to the farm. Molly knocked at the old farmhouse door. A loud voice roared to them to come in. Mr. Jackson opened the door. Sitting at tea was a big burly farmer, his wife at his elbow serving him with some kind of hot dish.

“Excuse our coming along like this,” said Mr. Jackson, “but this puppy of yours attached himself to us and wouldn’t leave us. So we brought him back.”

“Ah, he’s a wanderer, he is,” said the farmer. “Won’t stay to home, that he won’t. Be glad when I get rid of him, so I will. Folks is always bringing him back.”

“Get rid of him? What do you mean, get rid of him?” said Shirley, in alarm.

“Sell him, missie,” said the farmer. “He’s the last one of the litter. You don’t want a dog by any chance, do you?”

Away flew all thoughts of Alsatians, Great Danes, Sealyhams, and terriers from the minds of the six Jacksons! Want a dog? Well, they wanted the little spaniel, there was no doubt about that at all!

“Daddy!” said four urgent voices, and Molly slipped her hand through her father’s arm. “Daddy! Can we have him?”

“Well—how much is he?” said Mr. Jackson, doubtfully. “Is he a pedigree dog?”

“Can’t you see he is?” said the big farmer, wiping his mouth and getting up to go to the door. “He’s a fine dog, that little fellow. You can have him for three guineas, and that’s dirt cheap.”

It was cheap for a pedigree spaniel, but to the children it sounded a small fortune. Three guineas for a puppy! Goodness gracious!

“I’ll give him to you for your birthday, Dick dear,” said Mrs. Jackson. She could see how much her husband liked the little creature.

“No, Mother. Let’s all buy him!” said Michael suddenly. “All of us, so that he belongs to us all and not to any special person. I’ve got some money in my money box and so has Shirley, and the others have some money in the post-office savings. Let’s all buy him!”

Everyone thought that was a fine idea. Then the dog would belong to the whole family. He would be a Jackson dog.

“Right,” said Mr. Jackson, and he felt in his pocket for his wallet. He took out three pound notes, and three shillings from his trousers’ pocket. He handed them to the farmer. “Here you are. Send me the pedigree along when you’ve time. We live at Red-Roofs over the hill.”

“Ah,” said the farmer, pocketing the money. “Nice little house that. Lucky house too, so people say. Everyone’s had good luck there so far. Hope you will have too.”

“Oh we shall!” said Shirley. “We’ve had good luck so far, because we’ve got Jenny Wren and now we’ve got this darling puppy. What’s his name?”

“Oh, he answers to anything,” said the farmer, with a grin. “Call him what you like.”

So the puppy went home with the Jackson family after all, just as he had made up his mind to do. He ran along beside them, wagging his plume-like tail, his pink tongue out, his eyes sparkling. He didn’t mind leaving the farm. These were the people he wanted. They belonged to him.

The children were delighted with him. They took him to see Jenny Wren as soon as they got in, and it was she who really named him. She stared at the little dog, and spoke sharply as usual. “Dear dear—dogs just dirty the place up, and make twice as much work for anyone. But I warn him, if he starts chewing up any of my things, he’ll get a wallop with a broom-handle! What’s his name?”

“He hasn’t got one, Jenny Wren,” said Molly. “We’ll have to think of one. What about Tinker?”

“No,” said Michael. “There was a Tinker in our old street and he was a horrid dog. Let’s call him Scamp.”

Nobody liked that. It didn’t fit the puppy at all.

“Silky?” said Shirley, stroking his black silky coat. “Or Paddy-Paws?”

“Shadow,” said Peter, whose favourite book once had been about a dog called Shadow.

The puppy stood and stared up at them, trying to understand what they were saying. He wagged his tail at every new name. He didn’t seem to mind what he was called. Then he got tired of listening and darted to a nearby rug. He pulled it up and began to shake it to and fro as if it were a rat, making funny growling noises all the time. Jenny Wren gave a squeal of horror and snatched it away from him.

“Bad dog! A bundle of mischief you are, and a bundle of trouble you’ll be!”

“Oh!” said Molly. “That’s his name—Bundle! A bundle of mischief, a darling soft silly bundle of dog! Bundle!”

“Wuff,” said the puppy, and wagged his tail hard. Everyone agreed in delight that his name should be Bundle. “It’s just right for him,” said Molly. “And it’s good to call, too. When you give a dog a name, it must be one that is easy to call. Come here, Bundle!”

“That was a good idea of Jenny Wren’s,” said Michael. “Jenny, you’ve named the new Jackson. Let me introduce the two of you—Mr. Bundle Jackson, Miss Jenny Wren!”

“You’ve more nonsense in you than the dog!” said Jenny Wren, in her usual sharp voice, but her eyes had a pleased twinkle. Bundle would find a friend in her, and she would find a friend in him. He would never go short of food and fresh water while Jenny was about.

And so it was that Bundle came to join the little family at Red-Roofs, and quickly became one of them, accompanying them everywhere they went, burying bones in the garden, scratching at doors to be let in or out, and chewing up slippers and rugs and cushions in spite of Jenny’s constant threats of “walloping with a broom-handle.” He was soon “that nice little spaniel of the Jacksons at Red-Roofs,” and took his rightful place as one of the important members of the family.