Bing/Chapter 2

That evening, when Mrs. Browning went to look at the furnace and put on a couple of shovels of coal for the night, Bing went down cellar with her. He thought the cellar a very strange and interesting place. He had never been in one before, as he had spent the whole of his short life above ground. He explored all the dark interesting corners, and finally ​climbed up on the wood-pile and peeked out the cellar window. Then he hurried down and tried to dig a hole in the cellar bottom, but the dirt was too hard and he soon gave it up. Finally, he discovered the potato barrel in the very darkest corner of the cellar, and behind it was an exciting scent that interested him. It was more than exciting; it thrilled him and made his every nerve to tingle and the hair along his neck and back to stand erect. So he squeezed in behind the barrel, uttering sharp, excited barks. But these barks soon changed to yelps of pain, and he scrambled out from behind the barrel much faster than he had gone in and ran whimpering to Mrs. Browning. That kind lady at once took him up in her arms. She found a few drops of blood on his upper lip.

"You poor little dog," she said sympa​thetically, "that horrid, long-tailed, gray-whiskered, old rat has bitten you in the face. I must doctor the wound at once," and she hurried up-stairs with Bing.

The sylpho-nathol bottle was brought into play and a few drops were put on Bing's wound. This made the cut smart, and he thought that the treatment was worse than the original accident. After that, whenever he saw Mrs. Browning looking for the sylpho-nathol bottle, he would stick his tail between his legs and crawl under the stove and try to hide.

The last thing before the Brownings retired for the night, Mrs. Browning arranged a warm blanket in the basket in which she had brought the puppy home, and placed it close to the furnace in the cellar. Then she tucked Bing up for the night, and he was so tired from the exciting five hours that had elapsed since he ​had left his home in the kennels that he at once went to sleep.

"He went right off to sleep, just like a baby," reported Mrs. Browning to her husband as they prepared to retire. "He isn't going to give us a particle of trouble. I am sure he will be a great comfort to you."

"I hope so," replied the man.

Mr. Browning did not go to sleep immediately, for sleeplessness was one of his bugaboos, but Mrs. Browning was soon snoring peacefully. Presently a new sound was heard in the Browning establishment, and the listening man at once knew that it came from the cellar. The sound began with a hoarse bark, which gradually ascended in a pathetic crescendo until it ended in a wail of sound; then it would begin at the top of the scale and come sliding down, only to end in a hoarse ​little bark. Then there was absolute silence for perhaps thirty seconds, after that a half-dozen excited yelps, then another silence, just long enough to see if the outcry produced any results; then came a dozen angry, explosive little barks.

As the sounds from the cellar persisted and Mrs. Browning continued to snore peacefully, Mr. Browning pulled the coverlet over his head and tried to shut out the duet, but all to no purpose. Then he thrust his head under the pillow to see if that would help, but he could still hear the pitiful wailing.

Presently Mrs. Browning awoke with a start and sat up in bed. "Did I hear something?" she inquired. "What is that wailing down-stairs?"

"Oh, that's our new dog," replied Mr. Browning. "He has been at it fifteen ​minutes. I guess we are in for it this time."

"The poor little chap," returned his wife sympathetically. "I should have known better than to put him down cellar. He is afraid of that miserable old rat. I will go right down and bring him up to the kitchen."

So she put on her bathrobe and, thrusting her feet into her slippers, hurried down cellar. When she returned, she reported that she had moved the basket beside the kitchen stove and the little dog was again sleeping. Their troubles seemed over for that night, but Mr. Browning was skeptical, although he said never a word.

A half-hour later the pathetic concert below was resumed, but it was much louder than before, as the performer was now in the kitchen instead of the cellar. He went all through his entire program just ​as he had in the first instance, only this time it was much more vigorous, and it seemed to Mr. Browning more agonizing.

He pulled the blanket over his head and finally stuffed the ends of his handkerchief in his ears, but still the pathetic whimpering of the homesick puppy floated up to him.

"Oh! Is that poor little dog crying again?" exclaimed Mrs. Browning, raising herself on her elbow once more.

"Oh, yes," replied her husband, "he has been at it for the last half-hour. I just don't see how we are going to get any sleep to-night."

Mrs. Browning made another trip to the kitchen and fed and watered and cuddled the lonesome little dog, and once again she reported that he was fast asleep.

"He is worse than twins," said Mr. Browning, "or, at least, he is worse than a ​baby. I hope he has quieted down now for good."

But he had not, for, off and on for the better part of the night, the noise from the kitchen continued, and the new member of the family was quiet only when Mrs. Browning was tending to him.

Mr. Browning loved dogs, there was no question about that, but he did not like to hear them bark and whimper when he wanted to sleep. He stood it for the better part of the night and, towards morning, lost that patience that we should always have with very small children and small dogs. Finally, he crept quietly out of bed and made a trip to the kitchen himself. Bing greeted him joyously at the kitchen door, but his hilarity was not reciprocated, for Mr. Browning took him, none too carefully, by the scruff of the neck and cuffed his ears soundly and then ​threw him back into his basket, not forgetting to slam the kitchen door when he went back to bed.

This chastisement had the desired effect, for not another bark or whimper was heard that night from the kitchen, but Mr. Browning paid for it dearly, for it was at least two weeks before he could fully regain the little dog's confidence and get him once more to snuggle down in his lap as he had done that first night.

He had violated a fundamental rule in training a puppy, that is, not to punish a very small dog too severely before he has learned to love you. After he has learned to love his master, he can forgive him anything, but it bewilders him to punish him before that time has come.

Mr. Browning was very much surprised the following day to discover that Bing belonged entirely to Mrs. Browning, al​though he was supposed to be his own Christmas present. But, do what he would, the master could not get the little dog to so much as look at him all that day, not even when he tried to coax him with a gingersnap. When Mr. Browning thrust the gingersnap into the side of Bing's mouth, he held it for a minute wistfully and then, looking up at the man with a reproachful expression on his little dog face, dropped the dainty that he so much coveted and climbed into Mrs. Browning's lap.

"Well, what do you know about that?" exclaimed Mr. Browning. "Who would have thought that he was so sensitive? I shouldn't have done it, only you know how my sleep has been broken for so many weeks, and last night was just the last straw."

There was one member of the Browning family that Bing at once made friends ​with, and that was the Professor, a large buff-colored Angora cat. The Professor was so full of love and friendship for everybody that he at once took the little dog under his special care and, in a very few hours, the two were the best of friends. They would sleep together in the same chair, and the Professor tried to wash Bing's face that first evening, just as though he had been another cat.

Although Bing followed Mrs. Browning about like her shadow, and although he enjoyed the Professor greatly, yet he was not happy. He had come from a great kennel where there were twenty other beagle pups. They had enjoyed such romps and such wonderful sham fights, and now there was nobody to roll and tumble with or play with, the way he had romped with his brothers and sisters.

It was a beautiful home that he had ​come to, much more comfortable than the cheerless kennels had been. There he had slept with a half-dozen other puppies in the cold shelter; here he was always warm and comfortable, but Bing missed his dog family more than any one in the Browning household even dreamed.

One morning, when he had been at Sunshine Cottage about two weeks, this longing for his friends in the big kennels and for Mr. Manson became too great for Bing to bear, and he did a thing which nearly cost him his life.

Mrs. Browning was sweeping and, in the course of her house-cleaning, opened wide the kitchen door to air the room. She had supposed that Bing was sleeping on the window ledge of the living-room, but instead he was under the kitchen stove. So, when her back was turned, he slipped out through the open door and hurried ​down the street, going he knew not whither, but determined to seek and find his old home and all his brothers and sisters that had romped with him only a couple of weeks before.