The Decision of the Dog

By Richard Stillman Powell

APPINESS,” said Betty, “is”

“Surcease from dyspepsia,” quoth I.

“—having a duty in life, and doing it.”

“True; and I'm very happy.”

Betty sniffed.

“Do you believe that you are doing your duty?”

“Sure of it! Am I not here?”

“And does your duty lead you here at ten every morning and keep you stretched out on the couch until lunch time? Is that your idea of duty?”

“My duty in life is to keep watch and guard over you, Betty; to see that your inexperienced years are not taken advantage of, that your young affections are not stolen, and to”

“Thank you not at all,” cried Betty. “My inexperienced affections”

“Years, Betty.”

“—are in not the slightest danger!”

“Not when I am by.”

“No, indeed!”

Betty smiled exasperatingly.

“To keep my eye on the others,” I added, with dignity.

“Well,” said Betty, “you will soon have to open your eyes wider than they are now, if that is the case.”

“Someone is coming?” I asked, with admirable calmness.

“Mr. Burns is at this moment entering the gate.”

I raised my head so that I could see over the porch railing. The attitude was uncomfortable, but duty and discomfort are not only alliterative but synonymous.

“Burns,” I said, disagreeably; “he ought to be put out. A—ah!” I drew a deep breath of joy. “It's rum to rock candy he'll try to vault the tennis net! And if he does!”

The silence of suspense fell over the porch. The vines rustled excitedly, and Mug slapped his tail against the floor, intimating that although seemingly asleep he was in reality wide awake to the portentous moment. Then Betty blushed, the tennis net sagged in the middle and acted strangely, and I dropped my head behind the railing. Mug slowly arose and, viewing the scene on the lawn, barked once in disapprobation and went to sleep again.

“He's—he's so—so impetuous, Betty!” I gurgled from beneath a scratchy Japanese cushion.

Betty sniffed again.

“Aren't you—aren't you going now?” she asked, with elaborate indifference.

“Betty!” I cried, in injured virtue. “My duty!”

“It's not your duty to—to stay where you are not wanted,” answered Betty, warmly. “You don't like Mr. Burns, and—and”

“What have my personal likes or wishes to do with it, Betty? When duty calls”

“Mr. Burns”

“—or Mr. Burns,” I continued, airily, “I shall obey. And besides, this couch is very comfy.”

“Please go,” pleaded Betty.

“What will you give me?”

“Nothing; I will not bribe you,” answered Betty, in fine contempt. “If you want to stay and be mean”

“The Toppers' dance comes off to-morrow night, Betty.”

“What has that?”

“And you are going, Betty; and I am going, Betty. Shall we say three waltzes, Betty?”

“Certainly not!” Silence. Mug snored. Footsteps on the gravel walk. I rearranged the cushions under my head.

“Perhaps one dance,” began Betty.

“Oh, this is jolly nice!”

“Well, then, two; but”

“So kind of stretchy. Don't you like to rizzle, Betty?”

“Quick, he's here! Three dances!”

“Let us be exact, Betty; three waltzes?”

“Oh, yes, yes!” whispered Betty.

I arose. Mug arose. Betty sat down. I nodded to the other chap. As I passed down the steps Betty jumped up.

“Why, Mr. Burns! Where did you come from?”

I blinked gravely at Mug. Mug blinked gravely back.

—” began Betty.

“One moment, please. Are you quite sure that I ought to hear this?”

“What do you mean?” asked Betty.

“These outpourings of your maiden heart, Betty; these confessions of a young and trustful soul.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Ah, Betty, I pray you do not embarrass me! Has—er—has the—the new flame—I mean, has Mr. Burns spoken, Betty?”

“No, he has not,” answered Betty, with what seemed unnecessary warmth of tone and hauteur of expression. “The idea! And you may be quite sure that if he had I would not have told you!”

“You take a great load off my mind, my dear young lady.”

“Off your what?” cried Betty, with lamentable irony.

“Let us not quarrel, Betty. Hark! the stringed instruments again give forth their sweetest melodies. Let us haste away and mingle in the mazy dance.”

“I don't care to mingle in the mazy dance,” answered Betty, crossly.

“But this is my waltz, my second. If I lose this I shall have to have another. Allow me.” I took Betty's card.

“But what is this? Where, oh, where is our young friend, Mr. Burns? His well-known initials are not here, Betty. Or is he masquerading under the symbol of 'G. H.' or 'Dick?'”

“If you had not interrupted me so rudely,” answered Betty, “I should have told you that Mr. Burns is not here to-night. He was called to New York on business.”

I whistled.

“Mr. Burns on business? What is his business, please, Betty?”

“He's in the hardware business,” replied Betty, with the dignity becoming the mention of so solid and weighty a thing.

“Noble youth!” I murmured, as I wrote my initials after two waltzes and all the extras. “But ah, how glad am I that I am not in the hardware business!”

“Why?” asked Betty.

“Can you ask? Because, were I in the hardware business I might be far away from you, Betty! Far, far away! Perish the thought! It is enough to make me resolve never to earn my own living. Ah, I would rather starve by your side, Betty, than”

“Well, if there is any danger of starving,” interrupted Betty, “perhaps you will find Mr. Gould, and send him to me; I'm engaged to him for supper. And then run along and get something to eat yourself.”

“Betty,” I cried, indignantly, “it is not my—my in'ards that are starving, it's my heart!”

“How romantic,” answered Betty, cruelly. “Try a glass of seltzer.”

“Gould—Gould,” I muttered, “I'm very much afraid I don't know Gould.”

“Then you have a short memory,” replied Betty. “You were playing tennis with him yesterday.”

“Really? A short, lean, gray-haired chap, with?”

“No, of course not. He's big and— Please go; we sha'n't be able to get near the supper-room.”

“What matter? Let us stay here, Betty, in sound of the lulling waves, and feast our souls”

“It's not my soul that's hungry, sir. Please go!”

“If I do, will you stay for all the extras?”

“Indeed, I will not!”

I folded my arms and stared into the night.

“Then we will starve together,” I said, grimly.

“Please don't be horrid. You always make me bribe you to do everything. I'll stay for two extras if you'll find Mr. Gould at once.”

“Two extras, forsooth! What are two extras to a man whose heart is famished?”'

“Bother your heart,” cried Betty.

“Make it five extras and Gould shall be here immediately. Say no, and—ha! ha!—here we shall stay until the last emaciated sandwich is gone and the last dish of pink ice is melted.”

“I'll say three extras, then. Now go, please.”

“And I may have them all?”

“You may dance every one of them.”

“Betty, you're an—an—no, not an angel, Betty: you're a trump. When in doubt”

“Find Mr. Gould,” prompted Betty.

I turned away. Then I paused, struck with a brilliant thought.

“Betty, if I don't find him, may I?—that is”

“No,” answered Betty, decidedly, “you may not. So you might just as well find him.”

“Betty,” I pleaded, “he doesn't know your wishes as well as I. He doesn't know the kind of sandwiches you like. He doesn't guess that it takes twelve olives to satisfy your dainty hunger. And will he ask you to have a second or a third plate of salad? Not he! He would not dare; he thinks you are far, far too ethereal to eat mere food. Betty, he will starve you.”

The music ceased. Gowns rustled supperward. Betty paled.

“Quick!” she gasped. “Through the window!”

“But Gould?” I gasped.

“Bother Gould!” cried Betty. “Let's run!”

was watching a troublesome fly out of the corners of his sleepy brown eyes. He flopped his tail languidly in greeting tome. If the sun did not keep Mug forever on the move over some ten feet of porch space, I am certain he would have long since worn a hole through the boards with that absurd tail of his.

“Good morning,” said Betty, brightly, just as if nothing had happened. I sank dispiritedly upon the couch.

“Good morning,” I answered, despondently. I wanted her to know that I was suffering; I wanted the whole world to know it.

“Isn't it a perfectly grand day?” asked Betty, as she drew a needleful of pink floss through a yard of white stuff.

“Do you think so?” I asked.

“Of course. Don't you?”

“I don't know. I haven't noticed. What is there about the day that is grand?”

“Why, the blue sky and the warm sun and the cool breeze, and—and—oh, everything, you know.”

“Oh!”

Silence ensued. The Japanese cushion would not fit right against the back of my head. I sighed dolefully; there is nothing so telling as a well-delivered sigh, where the sympathy of the other sex is concerned. Mug had gone to sleep again. The ocean was frightfully noisy to-day. Betty laid down her—what she calls work.

“What is the matter?” she asked, sympathetically.

“Nothing, thank you.”

“Oh, yes, there is,” she answered, taking up her white stuff again and smiling in the superior manner that women have when dealing with the sorrows of men. “I can easily tell when something is wrong. Life is a great big, gruesome tragedy, isn't it? And the weather is just awful, and they set the worst table over at the hotel that you ever saw, don't they? And you doubt if you have a friend in the world; and as for me—” Betty tried to whistle—a most absurd, futile and charming effort—“as for me, why, I'm the very incarnation of frivolity, hard-heartedness and fickleness; am I not?”

“Really, I don't understand,” I responded, in a weary voice.

“Oh, yes, you do. Now, tell me all about it. Who is she?”

I made a great effort and managed to look reproachful; as a result Betty threw down her work and fell to laughing.

“I have a headache,” I said, with dignity.

“I thought that was a woman's prerogative,” answered Betty.

“Of course, if you doubt my word”

“Gracious, no!” cried Betty. “But tell me more. Why?”

“Oh, of course, you don't know; you couldn't imagine! You haven't destroyed my belief in human nature, have you? You haven't played with my trusting heart like—like—a cat with a mouse, have you? Oh, certainly not!” I thought my intense sarcasm rather good, but Betty did not appear impressed to any great extent.

“Well, I don't feel flattered at being likened to a cat, but since you have a headache, I'll forgive you. And when did the wicked cat hurt the poor 'ittie mouse?”

“Betty, did you or did you not say that you would stay for all—no, three extras?”

“I did,” answered Betty, solemnly.

“And did you or did you not say that I might have them all?”

“I did—not,” answered Betty.

I sat up, trying to look like the popular conception of Nemesis.

“Betty!”

“What I said was,” answered Betty, smilingly, “this: You asked if I would stay for three extras? I said I would. Then you asked if you could have them all? I answered that you might dance every one of them. But I didn't specify with whom.”

“And you found that ass Gould and hid away somewhere?”

Betty nodded cheerfully.

“And I wandered about like—like”

“A lion seeking whom you might devour.”

“Betty, you trifled with me!—you have hurt me!”

“I am very sorry,” murmured Betty, contritely. I looked at her suspiciously. “But—but goodness knows, it was stupid enough in that horrid close reception-room. And Mr. Gould—” she sighed—“would talk about Apulieuss Who was Apulieus?”

I shook my head.

“I don't know, but I'm sure he is not a fit subject for discourse between Mr. Gould and you.”

“I had doubts myself,” owned Betty.

“And am I to understand that you—er—did not enjoy your wrong-doing?”

“Not a bit. I'd much rather have been dancing with”

“With whom, Betty?” I asked, softly.

“With Mr. Burns or Mr. Townsend or you.”

Silence again fell over the scene. I laid my head back on the cushions and groaned subduedly. I didn't look, but I knew Betty was touched by that groan.

“Though, of course, if I had danced with anyone it would have been with you, for I'd promised you—that is, in a way, you know.”

I groaned again.

“You believe that, don't you?” asked Betty, anxiously.

“I don't know what to believe, Betty,” I replied, forlornly.

“Does it ache very bad?” asked Betty, after a moment of silence.

“Terribly.”

“Can I get—is there anything I can do?”

“You might—ouch!—you might move your chair a bit nearer, Betty. Your presence near me in this hour of trial”

“Nonsense,” said Betty. But the low rocker crept alongside.

“Is it—any better?” asked Betty, a few moments later.

“Lots. If I could hold the other one, too”

“You old silly!” whispered Betty.

you sit down?” asked Betty.

Mug was chasing sand-flies in a state of intense excitement, and so paid no attention to my advent. I took a seat out of range of the flying sand, “sic-ed” him on to renewed exertions, and looked gravely at Betty.

“Begin,” said I.

“Begin what?” asked Betty, in well-simulated surprise.

“What you want to tell me. Has Burns jilted you, or Gould blown his ah—brains out? Has Powers asked you again, or—what was his funny name?—Rosebud”

“Blossom,” corrected Betty.

“—or Blossom returned to cheer your solitude?”

Betty shook her head.

“No; he couldn't, you know; he's gone to Maine.”

“Who, Burns?”

“No, Mr. Blossom.

“Oh!” I sighed, regretfully. “Then you'll have to tell me; I can't guess.

“But I don't want to tell you anything,” cried Betty. “Not a thing.”

I waited, carefully and artistically dog-earing the leaves of Betty's paper-covered novel. Betty looked out to sea earnestly, looked at Mug disapprovingly, looked at me impatiently. I had reached the forty-second page when she spoke.

“At least—that is”

“Don't attempt to prepare me, Betty; I hate to be prepared. Tell me the worst at once.”

“Mr. Burns—” I let the forty-fourth page flutter undog-eared and listened attentively—“Mr. Burns has—has—Mr. Burns has”

“Spoken?”

Betty nodded, with her gaze fixed intently on the waves. I waited. Mug, having killed his seventeenth sand-fly, sighed luxuriously, walked around in a small circle five times, and sank to sleep with his head on my shoe. Betty found the waves very enthralling.

“And you—that is, Betty, you—er— In short”

“Well,” said Betty, hurriedly transferring her gaze for one delightful instant to my face, “he—he is very nice.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.”

“And so I said— And the hardware business is very respectable, isn't it? You know he's in the wholesale hardware.”

“Indeed!”

“I don't see why you don't like him,” said Betty, indignantly. “I'm sure he is always perfectly courteous to you.”

“His manners are above criticism, Betty.”

“And he—not that it matters, of course”

“Oh, most certainly not!”

“But he is—well, he is quite well off, you know.”

“Indeed! I congratulate him.”

“Yes, his father is very rich.”

“Then he has a father?”

“Why, of course.”

“Scotch, doubtless; Burns—um—hot Scotch.”

“I'll not tell you another thing,” said Betty, “if you don't stop talking queer.”

“There is more to tell, Betty?”

“Oh, yes. You see, I said the other day that if—if he did ask me to—to”

“Allow him to marry you.”

“Yes, if he did, you know, that I wouldn't tell you. But I was angry at the time; and you are my friend, of course—” Betty paused. “You are my friend, aren't you?”

“I have that honor, Betty.”

“And so—so I wanted you to know first of all.”

“You are very thoughtful. I fear I don't deserve such—ah—consideration.”'

“Oh, yes, you do. Of course, you're real horrid at times”

“Of course.”

“But then, you don't mean to be; do you?”

“I fear I do, Betty.”

Betty looked surprised at my candor.

“Anyhow, you deserve to be told.”

“Really! Have I been as wicked as that?”

“And—and so I've told you.”

“And so you've told me. And now, if we may be excused, Mug and I will go for a walk up the beach.”

“A walk? But why”

I nodded toward the steps.

“Prince Charming approaches, Betty. And I don't believe he craves the companionship of either Mug or me. So”

“But he—he won't mind your staying.”

“But we should. Think of Mug's tender years! He is far, far too young to be made a witness to the approaching scene.”

Betty blushed.

“Don't be silly. And please don't go.”

“But Burns, Betty?”

“Mr. Burns,” answered Betty, with fine dignity, “can have nothing to say to me that you are not at liberty to hear.”

“Oh, I'm not thinking of myself, Betty; I'm hardened, in way. You see, I've—well, I've known you, Betty. But Mug here”

“Please sit down,” pleaded Betty.

“Mug, the date of exile is postponed. You may sleep once more.” But as Mug had not awakened, the permission was unnecessary. “Of course, Betty, I don't pretend to understand. But your word is law, and I stay, even if I incur the undying enmity of the future Mr. Betty.”

“Now you're horrid again. And I won't tell you what I was going to.”

“Which was?”

“That—that I haven't—that we aren't—I mean, I haven't given him an answer—yet.”

“You haven't, Betty?”

Betty's cheeks were charmingly red, and she was striving to stare the ocean out of countenance. She shook her head.

“Is he coming for the—the answer now, Betty?”

Betty nodded.

“And it will be?”

“I—I don't know. I—I thought you would help me decide.”

“But—but”

“Oh, of course, if you don't care enough”

“Care, Betty!”

There was a moment of silence. Betty's eyes were still on the ocean. Prince Charming approached. Mug stirred uneasily.

“Betty,” I whispered, “suppose we let Mug decide!”

“Mug?” asked Betty, wonderingly.

“Mug,” said I.

“Oh!” said Betty.

Mug opened his wicked little eyes and fixed them on the intruder. Then he arose, and his nose twitched comically as he sniffed the air. Somehow my hand met another in the shadow of the sunshade and clasped it tightly as the suspense grew.

Mug was very deliberate in forming an opinion.

Betty averred afterward that I emitted a low, sibilant sound, but I am quite sure that I did not. The hand in mine trembled.

And then Mug curled his lips back and growled.

The hand was drawn slowly away, and Betty's eyes met mine. I jumped up.

“How are you, Burns?” I cried, with unusual cordiality. “Sit down. Will you have a cigar?”