Novel Notes. Jerome Klapka Jerome

gives forth these hoary antiquities as personal reminiscences of his own, or, at furthest, as episodes in the life of his second cousin. There are certain strange and moving catastrophes that would seem either to have occurred to, or to have been witnessed by, nearly every one you meet. I never came across a man yet who had not seen some other man jerked off the top of an omnibus into a mud-cart. Half London must, at one time or another, have been jerked off omnibuses into mud-carts, and have been fished out at the end of a shovel.

      Then there is the tale of the lady whose husband is taken suddenly ill one night at an hotel. She rushes downstairs, and prepares a stiff mustard plaster to put on him, and runs up with it again. In her excitement, however, she charges into the wrong room, and, rolling down the bedclothes, presses it lovingly upon the wrong man. I have heard that story so often that I am quite nervous about going to bed in an hotel now. Each man who has told it me has invariably slept in the room next door to that of the victim, and has been awakened by the man’s yell as the plaster came down upon him. That is how he (the story-teller) came to know all about it.

      Brown wanted us to believe that this prehistoric animal he had been telling us about had belonged to his brother-in-law, and was hurt when Jephson murmured, sotto voce, that that made the twenty-eighth man he had met whose brother-in-law had owned that dog – to say nothing of the hundred and seventeen who had owned it themselves.

      We tried to get to work afterwards, but Brown had unsettled us for the evening. It is a wicked thing to start dog stories among a party of average sinful men. Let one man tell a dog story, and every other man in the room feels he wants to tell a bigger one.

      There is a story going – I cannot vouch for its truth, it was told me by a judge – of a man who lay dying. The pastor of the parish, a good and pious man, came to sit with him, and, thinking to cheer him up, told him an anecdote about a dog. When the pastor had finished, the sick man sat up, and said, “I know a better story than that. I had a dog once, a big, brown, lop-sided – ”

      The effort had proved too much for his strength. He fell back upon the pillows, and the doctor, stepping forward, saw that it was a question only of minutes.

      The good old pastor rose, and took the poor fellow’s hand in his, and pressed it. “We shall meet again,” he gently said.

      The sick man turned towards him with a consoled and grateful look.

      “I’m glad to hear you say that,” he feebly murmured. “Remind me about that dog.”

      Then he passed peacefully away, with a sweet smile upon his pale lips.

      Brown, who had had his dog story and was satisfied, wanted us to settle our heroine; but the rest of us did not feel equal to settling anybody just then. We were thinking of all the true dog stories we had ever heard, and wondering which was the one least likely to be generally disbelieved.

      MacShaughnassy, in particular, was growing every moment more restless and moody. Brown concluded a long discourse – to which nobody had listened – by remarking with some pride, “What more can you want? The plot has never been used before, and the characters are entirely original!”

      Then MacShaughnassy gave way. “Talking of plots,” he said, hitching his chair a little nearer the table, “that puts me in mind. Did I ever tell you about that dog we had when we lived in Norwood?”

      “It’s not that one about the bull-dog, is it?” queried Jephson anxiously.

      “Well, it was a bull-dog,” admitted MacShaughnassy, “but I don’t think I’ve ever told it you before.”

      We knew, by experience, that to argue the matter would only prolong the torture, so we let him go on.

      “A great many burglaries had lately taken place in our neighbourhood,” he began, “and the pater came to the conclusion that it was time he laid down a dog. He thought a bull-dog would be the best for his purpose, and he purchased the most savage and murderous-looking specimen that he could find.

      “My mother was alarmed when she saw the dog. ‘Surely you’re not going to let that brute loose about the house!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’ll kill somebody. I can see it in his face.’

      “‘I want him to kill somebody,’ replied my father; ‘I want him to kill burglars.’

      “‘I don’t like to hear you talk like that, Thomas,’ answered the mater; ‘it’s not like you. We’ve a right to protect our property, but we’ve no right to take a fellow human creature’s life.’

      “‘Our fellow human creatures will be all right – so long as they don’t come into our kitchen when they’ve no business there,’ retorted my father, somewhat testily. ‘I’m going to fix up this dog in the scullery, and if a burglar comes fooling around – well, that’s his affair.’

      “The old folks quarrelled on and off for about a month over this dog. The dad thought the mater absurdly sentimental, and the mater thought the dad unnecessarily vindictive. Meanwhile the dog grew more ferocious-looking every day.

      “One night my mother woke my father up with: ‘Thomas, there’s a burglar downstairs, I’m positive. I distinctly heard the kitchen door open.’

      “‘Oh, well, the dog’s got him by now, then,’ murmured my father, who had heard nothing, and was sleepy.

      “‘Thomas,’ replied my mother severely, ‘I’m not going to lie here while a fellow-creature is being murdered by a savage beast. If you won’t go down and save that man’s life, I will.’

      “‘Oh, bother,’ said my father, preparing to get up. ‘You’re always fancying you hear noises. I believe that’s all you women come to bed for – to sit up and listen for burglars.’ Just to satisfy her, however, he pulled on his trousers and socks, and went down.

      “Well, sure enough, my mother was right, this time. There was a burglar in the house. The pantry window stood open, and a light was shining in the kitchen. My father crept softly forward, and peeped through the partly open door. There sat the burglar, eating cold beef and pickles, and there, beside him, on the floor, gazing up into his face with a blood-curdling smile of affection, sat that idiot of a dog, wagging his tail.

      “My father was so taken aback that he forgot to keep silent.

      “‘Well, I’m – ,’ and he used a word that I should not care to repeat to you fellows.

      “The burglar, hearing him, made a dash, and got clear off by the window; and the dog seemed vexed with my father for having driven him away.

      “Next morning we took the dog back to the trainer from whom we had bought it.

      “‘What do you think I wanted this dog for?’ asked my father, trying to speak calmly.

      “‘Well,’ replied the trainer, ‘you said you wanted a good house dog.’

      “‘Exactly so,’ answered the dad. ‘I didn’t ask for a burglar’s companion, did I? I didn’t say I wanted a dog who’d chum on with a burglar the first time he ever came to the house, and sit with him while he had supper, in case he might feel lonesome, did I?’ And my father recounted the incidents of the previous night.

      “The man agreed that there was cause for complaint. ‘I’ll tell you what it is, sir,’ he said. ‘It was my boy Jim as trained this ’ere dawg, and I guess the young beggar’s taught ’im more about tackling rats than burglars. You leave ’im with me for a week, sir; I’ll put that all right.’

      “We did so, and at the end of the time the trainer brought him back again.

      “‘You’ll find ’im game enough now, sir,’ said the man. ‘’E ain’t what I call an intellectual dawg, but I think I’ve knocked the right idea into ’im.’

      “My father thought he’d like to test the matter, so we hired a man for a shilling to break in through the kitchen window while the trainer held the dog by a chain. The dog remained perfectly quiet until the man was fairly inside. Then he made one savage spring at him, and if the chain had not been stout the fellow would