Читать книгу Lassie Come-Home - Eric Knight - Страница 4
Оглавление“I Never Want Another Dog”
The dog was not there! That was all Joe Carraclough knew.
That day he had come out of school with the others, and had gone racing across the yard in a rush of gladness that you see at all schools, all the world over, when lessons are over for the day. Almost automatically, by a habit ingrained through hundreds of days, he had gone to the gate where Lassie always waited. And she was not there!
Joe Carraclough stood, a sturdy, pleasant-faced boy, trying to reason it out. The broad forehead above his brown eyes became wrinkled. At first, he found himself unable to realize that what his senses told him could be true.
He looked up and down the street. Perhaps Lassie was late! He knew that could not be the reason, though, for animals are not like human beings. Human beings have watches and clocks, and yet they are always finding themselves “five minutes behind time.” Animals need no machines to tell time. There is something inside them that is more accurate than clocks. It is a “time sense,” and it never fails them. They know, surely and truly, exactly when it is time to take part in some well-established routine of life.
Joe Carraclough knew that. He had often talked it over with his father, asking him how it was that Lassie knew when it was time to start for the school gate. Lassie could not be late.
Joe Carraclough stood in the early summer sunshine, thinking of this. Suddenly a flash came into his mind.
Perhaps she had been run over!
Even as this thought brought panic to him, he was dismissing it. Lassie was far too well-trained to wander carelessly in the streets. She always moved daintily and surely along the pavements of the village. Then, too, there was very little traffic of any kind in Greenall Bridge. The main motor road went along the valley by the river a mile away. Only a small road came up to the village, and that became merely narrow footpaths farther along when it reached the flat moorland.
Perhaps someone had stolen Lassie!
Yet this could hardly be true. No stranger could so much as put a hand on Lassie unless one of the Carracloughs were there to order her to submit to it. And, moreover, she was far too well known for miles around Greenall Bridge for anyone to dare to steal her.
But where could she be?
Joe Carraclough solved his problem as hundreds of thousands of boys solve their problems the world over. He ran home to tell his mother.
Down the main street he went, racing as fast as he could. Without pausing, he went past the shops on High Street, through the village to the little lane going up the hillside, up the lane and through a gate and along a garden path and then through the cottage door, to cry out:
“Mother? Mother—something’s happened to Lassie! She didn’t meet me!”
As soon as he had said it, Joe Carraclough knew that there was something wrong. No one in the cottage jumped up and asked him what the matter was. No one seemed afraid that something dire had happened to their fine dog.
Joe noticed that. He stood with his back to the door, waiting. His mother stood with her eyes down toward the table where she was setting out the tea-time meal. For a second she was still. Then she looked at her husband.
Joe’s father was sitting on a low stool before the fire, his head turned toward his son. Slowly, without speaking, he turned back to the fire and stared into it intently.
“What is it, Mother?” Joe cried suddenly. “What’s wrong?”
Mrs. Carraclough set a plate on the table slowly and then she spoke.
“Well, somebody’s got to tell him,” she said, as if to the air.
Her husband made no move. She turned her head toward her son.
“Ye might as well know it right off, Joe,” she said. “Lassie won’t be waiting at school for ye no more. And there’s no use crying about it.”
“Why not? What’s happened to her?”
Mrs. Carraclough went to the fireplace and set the kettle over it. She spoke without turning.
“Because she’s sold. That’s why not.”
“Sold!” the boy echoed, his voice high. “Sold! What did ye sell her for—Lassie—what did ye sell her for?”
His mother turned angrily.
“Now she’s sold, and gone, and done with. So don’t ask any more questions. They won’t change it. She’s gone, so that’s that—and let’s say no more about it.”
“But Mother ...”
The boy’s cry rang out, high and puzzled. His mother interrupted him.
“Now no more! Come and have your tea! Come on. Sit ye down!”
Obediently the boy went to his place at the table. The woman turned to the man at the fireplace.
“Come on, Sam, and eat. Though Lord knows, it’s poor enough stuff to set out for tea ...”
The woman grew quiet as her husband rose with an angry suddenness. Then, without speaking a word, he strode to the door, took his cap from a peg, and went out. The door slammed behind him. For a moment after, the cottage was silent. Then the woman’s voice rose, scolding in tone.
“Now, see what ye’ve done! Got thy father all angry. I suppose ye’re happy now.”
Wearily she sat in her chair and stared at the table. For a long time the cottage was silent. Joe knew it was unfair of his mother to blame him for what was happening. Yet he knew, too, that it was his mother’s way of covering up her own hurt. It was exactly the same as her scolding. That was the way with the people in those parts. They were rough, stubborn people, used to living a rough, hard life. When anything happened that touched their emotions, they covered up their feelings. The women scolded and chattered to hide their hurts. They did not mean anything by it. After it was over ...
“Come on, Joe. Eat up!”
His mother’s voice was soft and patient now.
The boy stared at his plate, unmoving.
“Come on, Joe. Eat your bread and butter. Look—nice new bread, I just baked today. Don’t ye want it?”
The boy bent his head lower.
“I don’t want any,” he said in a whisper.
“Oh, dogs, dogs, dogs,” his mother flared. Her voice rose in anger again. “All this trouble over one dog. Well, if ye ask me, I’m glad Lassie’s gone. That I am. As much trouble to take care of as a child! Now she’s gone, and it’s done with, and I’m glad—I am. I’m glad!”
Mrs. Carraclough shook her plump self and sniffed. Then she took her handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose. Finally she looked at her son, still sitting, unmoving. She shook her head sadly and spoke. Again her voice was patient and kind.
“Joe, come here,” she said.
The boy rose and stood by his mother. She put her plump arm around him and spoke, her head turned to the fire.
“Look Joe, ye’re getting to be a big lad now, and ye can understand. Ye see—well, ye know things aren’t going so well for us these days. Ye know how it is. And we’ve got to have food on the table and we’ve got to pay our rent—and Lassie was worth a lot of money and—well, we couldn’t afford to keep her, that’s all. Now these are poor times and ye mustn’t—ye mustn’t upset thy father. He’s worrying enough as it is—and—well, that’s all. She’s gone.”
Young Joe Carraclough stood by his mother in the cottage. He did understand. Even a boy of twelve years in Greenall Bridge knew what “poor times” were.
For years, for as long as children could remember, their fathers had worked in the Wellington Pit beyond the village. They had gone on-shift, off-shift, carrying their snap boxes of food and their colliers’ lanterns; and they had worked at bringing up the rich coal. Then times had become “poor.” The pit went on “slack time,” and the men earned less. Sometimes the work had picked up, and the men had gone on full time.
Then everyone was glad. It did not mean luxurious living for them, for in the coal-mining villages people lived a hard life at best. But it was a life of courage and family unity, at least, and if the food that was set on the tables was plain, there was enough of it to go round.
Only a few months ago, the pit had closed down altogether. The big wheel at the top of the shaft spun no more. The men no longer flowed in a stream to the pit-yard at the shift changes. Instead, they signed on at the Labor Exchange. They stood on the corner by the Exchange, waiting for work. But no work came. It seemed that they were in what the newspapers called “the stricken areas”—sections of the country from which all industry had gone. Whole villages of people were out of work. There was no way of earning a living. The Government gave the people a “dole”—a weekly sum of money—so that they could stay alive.
Joe knew this. He had heard people talking in the village. He had seen the men at the Labor Exchange. He knew that his father no longer went to work. He knew, too, that his father and mother never spoke of it before him—that in their rough, kind way they had tried to keep their burdens of living from bearing also on his young shoulders.
Though his brain told him these things, his heart still cried for Lassie. But he silenced it. He stood steadily and then asked one question.
“Couldn’t we buy her back some day, Mother?”
“Now, Joe, she was a very valuable dog and she’s worth too much for us. But we’ll get another dog some day. Just wait. Times might pick up, and then we’ll get another pup. Wouldn’t ye like that?”
Joe Carraclough bent his head and shook it slowly. His voice was only a whisper.
“I don’t ever want another dog. Never! I only want—Lassie!”
