Bing/Chapter 8

On the evening of November 3rd, 19—, Mr. and Mrs. Browning were sitting in their cozy dining-room at Sunshine Cottage, enjoying the evening meal. Little Bing was not in his usual place on the floor between them, and they greatly missed him.

"I don't see where Bing is," remarked Mrs. Browning after a long silence. "He has hardly been in the house to-day and, ​whenever I have seen him, he has seemed to be full of business, trotting about with a great air of importance."

"Perhaps there has been a dog sociable," returned Mr. Browning, "or maybe the dog club meets this evening. I wouldn't worry about him if I were you."

With these words the master reached for a cup of tea, but paused with the steaming beverage half-way to his lips. He seemed to be listening, and Mrs. Browning at once noticed this.

"What is it, Lawrence?" she inquired quickly.

"I don't just know," he returned. "I thought I heard a dog howl, and it sounded like Bing. Listen."

For ten seconds there was absolute silence, then an unmistakable howl came from the end of the home lot. Both mas​ter and mistress rose hurriedly and went to the door.

For perhaps half a minute there was no sound outside, save the usual autumnal night noises, but presently the howl was repeated, and this time it was unmistakable.

It began with a chest tone, angry and passionate, but rose rapidly in the scale, increasing in pathos as it went higher and higher, and finally it died away in a very shred of sound, almost like a sob.

"That's Bing, sure enough," said Mr. Browning, and he whistled shrilly for the dog, but the little hound, usually quick to come at his master's call, paid no attention to the whistle, but sat dolefully on his tail lifting up his voice to Heaven with a melancholy howl.

Soon another howl was heard, coming from far down the street, but this howl ​was quite different from the one Bing had uttered. It was deep and sonorous, a dog diapason, beginning away down in the chest and seemingly full of anger and rage, but it rapidly mounted, growing in intensity and pathos until it finally ended in a pathetic wail, dying away in a tone so unearthly that it sounded almost like the cry of a lost soul.

"That's Watchman, the big police dog down at Higginses'," remarked Mr. Browning. "I wonder what's the matter. There isn't any one dead in town, is there? You know Watchman howled in just that way the night Grandpa Higgins died."

"I haven't heard of any one," returned Mrs. Browning. "Listen!"

From up the street came a howl pitched half-way between that of little Bing and the deep howl of Watchman.

"That's Scotty Jones," said Mr. ​Browning. "He has got the message, too, whatever it is. I wonder what is afoot. For all we think we know so much about dogs, there is still a great deal to learn. They seem to have psychological powers of which we know nothing, and strange premonitions of death and coming dangers. I am almost convinced that a dog actually beholds the death spectre when it finally comes, through some psychological vision of which we have no knowledge."

"Well," said Mrs. Browning, "this is the most doleful concert I ever heard, and I am going into the house."

After whistling for Bing for several minutes without avail, Mr. Browning followed her, but all through the evening they continued to discuss the meaning of this strange night serenade.

They would have been still more mys​tified later in the evening, had they beheld Watchman, Scotty, and Bing all come together as by a common impulse at the corner above Sunshine Cottage, at the place where the road to Meadowdale crossed Broad Street.

Apparently these three dogs had not made any previous appointment, but had answered a common impulse. Whatever it might be, something outside them and yet within them had told them that they were to meet at this place at just this particular time.

For a minute or two they sniffed noses, looked up at the November sky, and then returned to their confab. Finally they seemed to reach a decision and Watchman, the big police dog, led the way down the trolley track towards Meadowdale at a long swinging gallop. Scotty followed close behind, while little Bing brought up ​the rear, running with might and main to keep up with his two friends. Occasionally, when the pace became too much for him, he would stop and utter a despairing wail, at which the larger dogs would slow up until he overtook them. They did not slacken their pace until they reached the great river, and then it was merely to cross over to the travel bridge on which they crossed the river.

At the farther end of the bridge they went straight to a telephone pole some one hundred feet away and there, leaning exhaustedly against the pole, was a great gaunt greyhound, a dog none of them had ever seen before. He was so spent with running that he could scarcely stand. He was footsore and his feet were bleeding. His breath came spasmodically, with occasional short sobs. For several minutes the three newcomers stood round him,

​awaiting his pleasure. Finally he pulled himself together and stood erect, awaiting the advance of the newcomers.

First, Watchman went up to him and stood with his nose touching that of the greyhound for at least a minute. Then he turned suddenly, slunk away fifteen or twenty paces, and sat down on his tail and gave vent to that primitive wolf howl which had so recently been heard along the broad street of Shadyville.

Next, Scotty went up to the lank-looking dog and rubbed noses with him. He likewise soon retired and sat down on his tail and added his voice to that of Watchman.

Lastly, little Bing greeted the stranger. As soon as his nose touched that of the greyhound, he began to whimper and tremble and, after a very few seconds, he, likewise, retired and added his voice to the ​mournful duet that had preceded him. The old greyhound did not howl, he was too spent for that, but he stood looking mournfully at the other dogs with sad, half-closed eyes.

I do not know what the old greyhound told the three dogs from Shadyville, but he certainly told them something. I do not know what the dog mode of communication is, but I am inclined to think it is either a sign language or telepathic, probably the latter. I do not know that it is vocal, but the fact was that the exhausted greyhound was a dog courier from the flood-swept north. During the past forty-eight hours he had galloped unceasingly, covering two hundred miles. He had left the crest of the terrible flood twenty hours behind, and here he was at the end of the great bridge telling the dogs of Shadyville in some strange way of the things he ​had seen during the past forty-eight hours.

Two days before, just at dusk, he had been out on a hilltop overlooking a little Vermont village which slept in a peaceful valley. The sun was just setting and, as the great greyhound stood on the hilltop, his tall figure was sharply silhouetted against the evening sky. Then it was that he beheld a terrible sight, for, without warning, a mighty wall of water came roaring and seething down the valley. He had seen the house in which his master and mistress and two little children lived, roll over and over before the oncoming flood.

He had seen houses, barns, hen-coops, automobiles, cows, and horses, and even men and women, floating down the valley on the crest of this mountain of water. For fifteen minutes the old hound had ​stood spellbound, and then he had been seized with a great terror. This rushing, seething monster which was destroying everything in its wake would stretch up its mighty mouth for him, so he had turned and pointed his nose southward. All that night he had galloped and, at daybreak, had eaten a hasty breakfast at a garbage heap; then he had sped on, southward, southward, southward. He was galloping, he knew not where or why, but he must leave this seething, hissing, foaming monster that had destroyed his home and his friends far behind.

For another night and another day he had galloped, and so, at the end of forty-eight hours, he was sitting here by a telephone pole at the end of the great bridge telling the dogs of Shadyville the story of the terrible monster that was roaring, rushing, and foaming down upon the crest ​of the great river, bringing death and destruction to all who awaited its coming.

The following morning, Mr. Browning and a friend went to attend some meetings at a local college in which they were both interested, and the incident of the howling dogs the evening before was forgotten.

The morning papers contained scare-heads concerning the great flood to the northward, but, as it was a balmy autumnal day, such disasters as this flood seemed far off, and it was soon forgotten.

At three o'clock in the afternoon the great, seething, rushing, roaring, hissing monster of a river overflowed its banks on both sides below the three bridges, and the flood was on. At one point the shelving bank gave way for one hundred feet and a great tidal wave went rushing over the lowlands. Some farmers who were doing their autumn plowing in the meadows ​were obliged to flee for their lives. The great, hissing, seething, foaming monster spread over the meadows like a devasting demon, picking up driftwood, sticks, and anything that would float, as it swept on its relentless way. By four o'clock the houses and barns on Meadow Street were surrounded, and the farmers came and went on rafts or in boats. But the good people on Meadow Street were immune to floods. They had seen the water as high as this and higher, so they made no effort to remove their stock or household belongings. By five o'clock the great meadows were entirely submerged and the water was creeping into the lower end of Broad Street, and Shadyville village was threatened.

That evening when the little Polish boy brought the milk to Sunshine Cottage, he was very much excited.

​"Oh, Mr. Browning," he cried, "the river has gone crazy and is running backwards into the street. My house is surrounded and I had to wear my rubber boots. If I don't hurry up and get home, it will be up to my middle."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry," returned Mr. Browning. "We often have high water here in Shadyville. Two or three times I have seen it so high that we could take a boat right out in front of the house."

But Mr. Browning was really surprised when he retired at eleven o'clock and the mistress reported that the water was coming up in the ditches in front of the house.

"I wouldn't worry," said the man as he crawled into bed. "We have seen high water before. I guess it will begin to fall by morning."

But, in spite of herself, Mrs. Browning was worried and could not retire. In​stead, she and Bing wandered restlessly about the buildings, watching the ever-advancing water.

At two o'clock in the morning, every bell in the sleepy old village began ringing violently and Mr. Browning came out of bed with a jump and, gathering up his clothes, hurried down-stairs. Something had surely happened, or was about to happen, or they would not give a general alarm like this.

Then the telephone rang and a friend told them that the river was coming over its banks at the head of the street. Every able-bodied man in the town was called to the dikes, or rather to the place where the dikes should have been, for there were none.

Then Mr. Browning remembered that he had known old-timers to shake their heads and say that, if the river ever came ​over the banks at the head of the street, it would be good-night to Shadyville. In fifteen minutes' time, automobiles were rushing to and fro, honking their horns and calling for men to get up. Half an hour later, trucks loaded with bags of sand could be seen hurrying towards the vulnerable north end of the town. At first, the dike was only two or three rods long, but, as the water rose, it was extended until, by daylight, it was half a mile in length and four bags high, and still the water rose.

As daylight came on, the scene on Broad Street in Shadyville was indescribable to one who was used to its usual calm. For hours a procession of fugitives had been marching by Sunshine Cottage. Little children carrying household utensils and clothing were in the van. Some of them were stolid and philosophical, but ​others were crying. Close behind them came the women carrying suitcases in which they had hurriedly thrust clothing and their most valuable possessions, and behind them came the great two-horse wagons, groaning under a load of stock. The cattle were lowing, excited calves were bleating, but the most hideous din of all was that made by the pigs. They had been suddenly aroused from sleep in their warm sties, caught and hog-tied, and thrust unceremoniously into boats, going to what doom they knew not. But one thing was certain, their squealing was incessant and harrowing to the last degree.

By noon, Sunshine Cottage was entirely surrounded by water, three or four feet deep. The Brownings and one other family just across the street were all the people that still stayed in their houses on the lower end of Broad Street. The rest ​of the inhabitants had fled with what belongings they could take with them. They had abandoned their homes and their homesteads to the devastating flood.

But the Brownings were old-timers; they had seen high water before. As long as the dike held at the head of the street, there was no reason for abandoning their home. At two o'clock in the afternoon, although the scene was anything but reassuring, Mr. Browning sat before the radio listening to a football game in a distant city, Bing occupying his usual place under a table near by. The master had concluded that they might as well get what fun they could out of the day, but the play had barely started and the game was scarcely under way when there came a violent knocking at the front door, and a State officer hurried in.

"I am sorry, Mister," he said, "but the ​dam at Werner's Falls has given way and you have just fifteen minutes to get into the boat. Take what you can in that time, and come quickly."

Now Mr. Browning had read just the day before that, if this great dam, which was a model of modern engineering, ever gave way, a flood of water twenty-five feet high and running at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour would sweep down the valley, carrying everything before it. So the Brownings needed no further urging. Hastily Mr. Browning filled a suitcase with some of his most valuable manuscripts, while Mrs. Browning filled another with clothing and other valuables. Just at the last minute, as Mr. Browning was handing the suitcase to the officer in the boat, Mrs. Browning rushed out in great excitement.

"I can't find Bing or the Professor ​anywhere," she cried, "and we can't go without them. What shall we do?"

For answer, one of the officers took her firmly by the arm. "Get into the boat, madam," he said. "There is not a minute to lose. At such a time as this, we cannot stop for cats and dogs."

"But we can't go without our pets," objected Mr. Browning.

"You will have to," said another officer, pushing him back into a seat.

While they had been talking, a third officer had locked the front door on Bing and the Professor and, a second later, the boat pushed off.

It was a terrible scene and one that the Brownings never forgot. Their beloved Sunshine Cottage was entirely surrounded by water which was gurgling and foaming as it rushed under the piazza and into the cellar.

​There was water, water everywhere, dark, foaming, and gurgling. Above the sound of its sucking and seething came the cries of excited men as they urged their frantic horses through the flood, the lowing of the cattle, the squealing of the pigs, the excited barking of dogs, and, above all and worst of all, the sobbing of women and little children.

As the boat reached the corner of Broad Street and the road to Meadowdale, Mrs. Browning glanced back for a parting look at Sunshine Cottage.

"Officer, look!" she cried. "See if you can make out what that is in the garret window."

The officer turned his glance in the direction indicated and said: "It is your cat and dog. They have taken refuge in the garret. They surely understand the situation."

​And that was the last glimpse that the Brownings had of Bing and the Professor, for, a second later, the boat rounded the corner and Sunshine Cottage was blotted from sight. A few blocks farther on they were transferred to an automobile, for the village was not entirely submerged. The automobile in turn took them to the house of some good friends who lived on higher ground.

All that afternoon they waited feverishly for reports of the flood. Every man in Shadyville who could work was busy. Trucks loaded with sand-bags were rushing by, while farmers, business men, and professional men stood waist-deep in the water, piling the precious sand-bags on the dike.

By night, the waters were still rising. Nearly all the cellars on Broad Street were full of water and some of the first ​stories were partly submerged, but still no further word from the great dam at Werner's Falls. Had it really gone out? No one seemed to know, and this added to the agony of the situation.

All through that night the Brownings tossed on sleepless pillows, listening to the booming of the big clock near by. It was an interminable night. Would morning never come? What was going on out there in the dark? What was happening to old Shadyville? Would they ever see Sunshine Cottage again? Would little Bing and the Professor be safe? What a night! Would it never end? And thus the hours dragged by.