Читать книгу While Rivers Run - Maurice Walsh - Страница 15

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“It was over in New York—that’s where I met the boy inside—and all I owned at the time was the terrier. One morning early I was giving him a piece of exercise down at the Battery—I had him in leash, too, in accordance with the regulations of that place—when along comes a large policeman—cops, they call them—leading a police-dog; you know those overgrown, long-legged, slab-sided, shovel-headed, three-quarter-bred Airedales—one of them. As soon as he set eyes on Haro he yelled blue murder—the dog I mean—and nearly pulled the arm out of the policeman trying to get at him. ‘Is that a fighting dog you have?’ the policeman wanted to know, giving his brute a calming kick—a big Polack he was, and no Irishman. ‘He is not a fighting dog,’ I said mildly. ‘He only kills in self-defence.’ ‘Here’s a pup would put a strangle-hold on him in five minutes,’ he challenged. ‘He might,’ said I, ‘and again he might not.’ ‘There’s a hundred iron men’—dollars, he meant—‘behind this bozo—’ ‘I have no iron men,’ I told him, ‘and if I had I would not bet them on a dog-fight—’tis against the regulations.’ My intentions were peaceable, as you can see.”

Margaret chuckled, and he chuckled back.

“ ‘Take away your sawed-off runt,’ he ordered then; ‘I can’t hold this tiger for ever.’ He might have dragged his own beast away, but I did not tell him so, having acquired wisdom at its usual price. Meantime, there was Haro sitting calmly at my feet, admiring the Statue of Liberty with a peaceful eye. ‘Come on, boy avic,’ said I. ‘You are a gentleman, and the dog of one besides’; and away we went. It happened when my back was turned, and whether by accident or design I will not be saying. Anyhow, the Airedale slipped his leash, and the first I knew of it was Haro and myself on the ground, and he on top of us, worrying indiscriminately. Ay! he knocked us clean off our feet. I tell you I got out of the storm-centre as soon as possible, but I was still tied to the leash with a bloody hand. ‘Take off your dog,’ I yelled. ‘Take off your own,’ he yelled back. ‘How can I,’ I shouted with reason, ‘and sixty pounds of brute on top of him?’ ‘Let them settle it their own way, then’; and his mouth wide as a door with laughter. That’s the way it started.”

“It couldn’t start any other way,” commended Aelec Brands.

“And then I heard a voice bellowing in my ear—it had to bellow, for the Airedale was waking the dead—‘Damn your sowl! Why wouldn’t you give your tarrier a chance?—le’ go that leash!’ ‘You go to—’—your pardon, Miss Brands—a warm place I meant. ‘How can I let it go and it twisted round my hand?’ I thought it was the policeman, but no—a small, rough, sailor-like man with a clasp-knife in a leather belt. ‘Is that the way?’ said he; and he had the leash cut before I could stop him—if I wanted to. He seemed to be a knowledgeable man about dog-fights, and might be a Kerryman himself from what he knew about the Kerry-blue in action. He was hopping about the circumference of the cyclone on his hands and knees, trying to see what poor Haro was doing under the smother of the Airedale. ‘Tell me,’ he demands—and our heads together—‘has he his hoult? Has he his hoult yet—or is the —— false to his breed?’ ‘He has not,’ said I; ‘but give him time—give the pup time.’ ‘Time?’ said he. ‘We have lashins of time, man; I’m thinking this is going to be a good fight.’ It was.”

“But was there no one there to stop it?” cried Margaret.

“It was in the early morning, as I said, and the folk that use the Battery Park at that hour would rather a dog-fight than breakfast—and they need the breakfast. The only man that could stop it would not, for his dog seemed to be having it all its own way. Haro was underneath and on his back, and stayed there, while the big Airedale scrambled all over him, taking a bite where he could and talking for the two of them. The Kerry-blue had nothing much to say, only now and then he gave a small deep growl, not so much of anger as content. He was ten pounds lighter than the Airedale, and his natural method of warfare looked like self-destruction. He fought best from below, like all his breed. See this fellow here. A back like whalebone, a broad shaggy head manipulated by a neck that’s one layer of muscle, and big flat pads like a set of boxing-gloves. The Airedale could reach no vital place, and Haro patiently sought for the grip he wanted. And in time he got it—when the other’s energy began to slacken. ‘Ye sowl, ye!’ roared the sailor-man. ‘On his back now, boy!’ And so it was. The Airedale lost heart and tried to drag away, but the Kerry came with him, rolled him over, and muzzled him against the ground. ‘Take off your dog,’ roared the policeman. ‘Take off your own,’ I gave back, and, indeed, I would have stopped the fight then if I was let; but the policeman jumped in and gave Haro his number eleven on the side of the head.

“The rest of the fight I saw only out of the tail of an eye. The kick half-broke Haro’s hold, and the Airedale wrenched himself loose and proceeded from that place at two miles to the dead minute, his ki-yi going out in front and the Kerry-blue coming behind, with the small sailor-man hanging on to the bit of leash and moving in standing jumps, like the devil going through Ballyhahill. That was the last I saw of my dog—or the sailor, who came out of Kerry, I suspect—a bad, dishonest place where dogs are concerned.”

“He did not bring back your dog?” inquired Margaret.

“I doubt it. I wasn’t there to see.”

“Arrested?” suggested Aelec.

“Must have been. I was in a reduced condition at the time—and a second policeman had turned up out of nowhere in the middle of the protest I was making. Their arguments subdued me. I remember the police-court quite distinctly, though, and the justice saying ‘Seven days in the Tombs.’ And it was so.”