England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Short stories, English
"And I'll take care the dog does not bite you in the dark," spoke up the
lady, pushing her head forward to give the lunatic a nod or two that
you'd hardly have matched for defying impudence. "You'll be good, won't
you, Wasp? But I should like the lamp lighted myself. You will perhaps
be so kind, my lord, as to see that there's no mistake made about it at
the next station!"
He slightly raised his hat to her and bowed in answer, but did not
speak. The lunatic buttoned up his coat with fingers that were either
nervous or angry, and then disturbed the little gentleman next him,
who had read his big book throughout the whole commotion without once
lifting his eyes, by hunting everywhere for his pocket-handkerchief.
"Here's the tunnel!" he cried out resentfully, as we dashed with a
shriek into pitch darkness.
It was all very well for her to say she would take care of the dog, but
the first thing the young beast did was to make a spring at me and then
at the Squire, barking and yelping frightfully. The Squire pushed it
away in a commotion. Though well accustomed to dogs he always fought shy
of strange ones. The lady chattered and laughed, and did not seem to try
to get hold of him, but we couldn't see, you know; the Squire hissed at
him, the dog snarled and growled; altogether there was noise enough to
deafen anything but a tunnel.
"Pitch him out at the window," cried the lunatic.
"Pitch yourself out," answered the lady. And whether she propelled the
dog, or whether he went of his own accord, the beast sprang to the other
end of the carriage, and was seized upon by the nobleman.
"I think, madam, you had better put him under your mantle and keep
him there," said he, bringing the dog back to her and speaking quite
civilly, but in the same tone of authority he had used to his servant
about the lamp. "I have not the slightest objection to dogs myself, but
many people have, and it is not altogether pleasant to have them loose
in a railway carriage. I beg your pardon; I cannot see; is this your
hand?"
It was her hand, I suppose, for the dog was left with her, and he went
back to his seat again. When we emerged out of the tunnel into daylight,
the lunatic's face was blue.
"Ma'am, if that miserable brute had laid hold of me by so much as
the corner of my great-coat tail, I'd have had the law of you. It is
perfectly monstrous that any one, putting themselves into a first-class
carriage, should attempt to outrage railway laws, and upset the comfort
of travellers with impunity. I shall complain to the guard."
"He does not bite, sir; he never bites," she answered softly, as if
sorry for the escapade, and wishing to conciliate him. "The poor little
bijou is frightened at darkness, and leaped from my arms unawares.
There! I'll promise that you shall neither see nor hear him again."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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