“Why, this isn’t the interval1. There’s one more turn yet.”
“A dog turn,” he answered, and thereby2 explained; for it was his practice to leave a theatre during the period of the performance of an animal-act.
Villa3 Kennan glanced hastily at the programme.
“Of course,” she said, then added: “But it’s a singing dog. A dog Caruso. And it points out that there is no one on the stage with the dog. Let us stay for once, and see how he compares with Jerry.”
“Some poor brute4 tormented5 into howling,” Harley grumbled6.
“But it has the stage to itself,” Villa urged. “Besides, if it is painful, then we can go out. I’ll go out with you. But I just would like to see how much better Jerry sings than does he. And it says an Irish terrier, too.”
So Harley Kennan remained. The two burnt-cork comedians7 finished their turn and their three encores, and the curtain behind them went up on a full set of an empty stage. A rough-coated Irish terrier entered at a sedate8 walk, sedately9 walked forward to the centre, nearly to the footlights, and faced the leader of the orchestra. As the programme had stated, he had the stage to himself.
The orchestra played the opening strains of “Sweet Bye and Bye.” The dog yawned and sat down. But the orchestra was thoroughly10 instructed to play the opening strains over and over, until the dog responded, and then to follow on with him. By the third time, the dog opened his mouth and began. It was not a mere11 howling. For that matter, it was too mellow12 to be classified as a howl at all. Nor was it merely rhythmic13. The notes the dog sang were of the air, and they were correct.
But Villa Kennan scarcely heard.
“He has Jerry beaten a mile,” Harley muttered to her.
“Listen,” she replied, in tense whispers. “Did you ever see that dog before?”
Harley shook his head.
“You have seen him before,” she insisted. “Look at that crinkled ear. Think! Think back! Remember!”
Still her husband shook his head.
“Remember the Solomons,” she pressed. “Remember the Ariel. Remember when we came back from Malaita, where we picked Jerry up, to Tulagi, that he had a brother there, a nigger-chaser on a schooner14.”
“And his name was Michael—go on.”
“And he had that self-same crinkled ear,” she hurried. “And he was rough-coated. And he was full brother to Jerry. And their father and mother were Terrence and Biddy of Meringe. And Jerry is our Sing Song Silly. And this dog sings. And he has a crinkled ear. And his name is Michael.”
“Impossible,” said Harley.
“It is when the impossible comes true that life proves worth while,” she retorted. “And this is one of those worth-whiles of impossibles. I know it.”
Still the man of him said impossible, and still the woman of her insisted that this was an impossible come true. By this time the dog on the stage was singing “God Save the King.”
“That shows I am right,” Villa contended. “No American, in America, would teach a dog ‘God Save the King.’ An Englishman originally owned that dog and taught it. The Solomons are British.”
“That’s a far cry,” he smiled. “But what gets me is that ear. I remember it now. I remember the day when we were on the beach at Tulagi with Jerry, and when his brother came ashore15 from the Eugénie in a whaleboat. And his brother had that self-same, loppy, crinkled ear.”
“And more,” Villa argued. “How many singing dogs have we ever known! Only one—Jerry. Evidently such a type occurs rarely. The same family would more likely produce similar types than different families. The family of Terrence and Biddy produced Jerry. And this is Michael.”
“He was rough-coated, along with a crinkly ear,” Harley meditated16 back. “I see him distinctly as he stood up in the bow of the whaleboat and as he ran along the beach side by side with Jerry.”
“If Jerry should to-morrow run side by side with him you would be convinced?” she queried17.
“It was their trick, and the trick of Terrence and Biddy before them,” he agreed. “But it’s a far cry from the Solomons to the United States.”
“Jerry is such a far cry,” she replied. “And if Jerry won from the Solomons to California, then is there anything more remarkable18 in Michael so winning?—Oh, listen!”
For the dog on the stage, now responding to its one encore, was singing “Home, Sweet Home.” This finished, Jacob Henderson, to tumultuous applause, came on the stage from the wings and joined the dog in bowing. Villa and Harley sat in silence for a moment. Then Villa said, apropos20 of nothing:
“I have been sitting here and feeling very grateful for one particular thing.”
He waited.
“It is that we are so abominably21 wealthy,” she concluded.
“Which means that you want the dog, must have him, and are going to got him, just because I can afford to do it for you,” he teased.
“Because you can’t afford not to,” she answered. “You must know he is Jerry’s brother. At least, you must have a sneaking22 suspicion . . . ?”
“I have,” he nodded. “The thing that can’t sometimes does, and there is a chance that this may be one of those times. Of course, it isn’t Michael; but, on the other hand, what’s to prevent it from being Michael? Let us go behind and find out.”
* * * * *
“More agents of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” was Jacob Henderson’s thought, as the man and woman, accompanied by the manager of the theatre, were shown into his tiny dressing-room. Michael, on a chair and half asleep, took no notice of them. While Harley talked with Henderson, Villa investigated Michael; and Michael scarcely opened his eyes ere he closed them again. Too sour on the human world, and too glum23 in his own soured nature, he was anything save his old courtly self to chance humans who broke in upon him to pat his head, and say silly things, and go their way never to be seen by him again.
Villa Kennan, with a pang24 of disappointment at such rebuff,
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