The Man with Two Left Feet by P. G. Wodehouse Page B

enough.’
    â€˜Ah!’
    So the caretaker gave the man his five shillings, and the man went off and left me.
    At first the newness of everything and the unaccustomed smells and getting to know the caretaker, who was a nice old man, prevented my missing the man, but as the day went on and I began to realize that he had gone and would never come back, I got very depressed. I pattered all over the house, whining. It was a most interesting house, bigger than I thought a house could possibly be, but it couldn’t cheer me up. You may think it strange that I should pine for the man, after all the wallopings he had given me, and it is odd, when you come to think of it. But dogs are dogs, and they are built like that. By the time it was evening I was thoroughly miserable. I found a shoe and an old clothes brush in one of the rooms, but could eat nothing. I just sat and moped.
    It’s a funny thing, but it seems as if it always happened that just when you are feeling most miserable, something nice happens. As I sat there, there came from outside the sound of a motor-bicycle, and somebody shouted.
    It was dear old Fred, my old pal Fred, the best old boy that ever stepped. I recognized his voice in a second, and I was scratching at the door before the old man had time to get up out of his chair.
    Well, well, well! That was a pleasant surprise! I ran five times round the lawn without stopping, and then I came back and jumped up at him.
    â€˜What are you doing down here, Fred?’ I said. ‘Is this caretaker your father? Have you seen the rabbits in the wood? How long are you going to stop? How’s mother? I like the country. Have you come all the way from the public house? I’m living here now. Your father gave five shillings for me. That’s twice as much as I was worth when I saw you last.’
    â€˜Why, it’s young Nigger!’ That was what they called me at the saloon. ‘What are you doing here? Where did you get this dog, father?’
    â€˜A man sold him to me this morning. Poor old Bob got poisoned. This one ought to be just as good a watchdog. He barks loud enough.’
    â€˜He should be. His mother is the best watchdog in London. This cheese-hound used to belong to the boss. Funny him getting down here.’
    We went into the house and had supper. And after supper we sat and talked. Fred was only down for the night, he said, because the boss wanted him back next day.
    â€˜And I’d sooner have my job, than yours, dad,’ he said. ‘Of all the lonely places! I wonder you aren’t scared of burglars.’
    â€˜I’ve my shotgun, and there’s the dog. I might be scared if it wasn’t for him, but he kind of gives me confidence. Old Bob was the same. Dogs are a comfort in the country.’
    â€˜Get many tramps here?’
    â€˜I’ve only seen one in two months, and that’s the feller who sold me the dog here.’
    As they were talking about the man, I asked Fred if he knew him. They might have met at the public house, when the man was buying me from the boss.
    â€˜You would like him,’ I said. ‘I wish you could have met.’
    They both looked at me.
    â€˜What’s he growling at?’ asked Fred. ‘Think he heard something?’
    The old man laughed.
    â€˜He wasn’t growling. He was talking in his sleep. You’re nervous, Fred. It comes of living in the city.’
    â€˜Well, I am. I like this place in the daytime, but it gives me the pip at night. It’s so quiet. How you can stand it here all the time, I can’t understand. Two nights of it would have me seeing things.’
    His father laughed.
    â€˜If you feel like that, Fred, you had better take the gun to bed with you. I shall be quite happy without it.’
    â€˜I will,’ said Fred. ‘I’ll take six if you’ve got them.’
    And after that they went upstairs. I had a basket in the hall, which had belonged to Bob, the dog