A FLOCK of pigeons were walking about in front of the engine-house, picking up the handful of grain that one of the firemen had thrown out to them. They were not all walking about, to speak accurately,—one, the little black and white lame pigeon, was hopping, with one little pink foot held closely against his warm feathers. Jack the Scrapper, the large handsome dark-blue pigeon with the rainbow neck, was darting in and out among the flock, seizing upon the largest grains, and pecking at every pigeon who came in his way.

The pigeons always got out of the way when they saw the Scrapper coming towards them. Sometimes a bold young pigeon would face him, and stand his ground for a while, but he didn’t keep up his resistance very long. The Scrapper was so much stronger and bolder that he always got the better of the others in the end, and was worse than ever after these triumphs.

The nearest the Scrapper ever came to defeat was when he was attacked by the six-months white squab. The squab was large and strong for his age, and as good-natured as the Scrapper was ill-natured. He had long borne the Scrapper’s bullying ways with an ill grace, and once seeing the bully peck sharply one of the mother pigeons who had meekly brought up several broods in a most judicious manner, the spirited squab could contain himself no longer, and flew at the bully with great fury. Young as the white squab was, the Scrapper had to exert himself to subdue him, and the valiant squab held out to the last. Although conquered by brute force, his spirit was as dauntless as ever, and he vowed dire vengeance so soon as he should have grown to his full strength.

The white squab had mild eyes and a gentle disposition. He never picked a quarrel, but never took an insult or saw the weak abused if he could help it. These traits made him very popular with the flock, and many of the older pigeons, as they saw him growing stronger and larger, foretold that Dick the Scrapper would have to look out for himself when the plucky squab should have attained his growth. Meanwhile the squab himself said nothing on the subject, but went on his way good-naturedly, growing stronger every day and pluming his feathers with great care. He showed no fear of the Scrapper and never got out of his way as the others did, but it was noticed that the Scrapper never tried to take the white squab’s food away, nor ever pecked at him to make him get out of his path. Perhaps he too saw how strong and big the plucky squab was growing.

This day the flock of pigeons were feeding in front of the engine-house, and the sparrows soon joined them, hopping in and out among the pigeons so adroitly that even the Scrapper often found his food vanish from before his very eyes just as he was on the eve of picking it up. While they were thus engaged, the two dogs, Jack and Boxer, came around the corner of the engine house, each with a bone in his mouth, and they lay down in the sun in front of the engine-house to eat their lunch in quiet.

The sparrows eyed the two dogs eagerly, hoping that something would be left for them, for sparrows like to pick a bone as well as dogs do; and the pigeons walked about, bobbing their pretty heads and cooing to each other in low tones.

The two dogs were a long time at their repast, for it takes time for a dog to crack a bone and get at the marrow, which is the sweetest morsel of all. Not a word passed between them until the bones had been cracked and the marrow eaten; then they allowed the sparrows to approach and get what morsels they could from the pieces left.

After they had both lapped their chops in a genteel manner, they began to talk about the matter that so interested the Fire-Dog.

“Now that the blind kid is so well looked after, the next step is to find his mother. Mr. Ledwell is trying to hunt her up, but it takes time.”

“The humans go about those things in such a round-about way,” said Boxer, who was in an excellent humor after his savory lunch. “If they knew enough to trust us a little more, they would do better.”

“I believe that the woman is dead,” said the Fire-Dog.

“No, she isn’t,” twittered a voice near by, and one of the sparrows lighted in front of the two dogs. “No, she isn’t dead, for I’ve seen her, and know just where she is.”

“How did you happen to find out so much?” asked Jack. “It is more than likely that it isn’t Billy’s mother at all. You never saw her.”

“Yes, I have seen her,” twittered the sparrow. “We were there when she fell down on the sidewalk, and we waited around until the ambulance came and took her away. We flew after it, too, to see what was going on, and we saw it stop before a big building, and saw them take her out and carry her in.”

“Very likely she was dead,” said Jack. “You couldn’t tell that, or she may have died since.”

“No, she wasn’t dead. I could tell by the way they carried her. I know she hasn’t died since, because I’ve seen her since through the window. I light on a big tree that grows in front of the window, and I can see just as plainly as if I were in the room.”

“It all sounds very well,” said business-like Jack, “but for all that you may be mistaken. It may have been some other woman.”

“I am not mistaken,” chirped the sparrow. “Here is a pigeon who has talked with her, and he can tell you more about her than I can. I don’t believe in trusting people too far, so I keep out of reach, but this speckled pigeon can tell you more about her than I can. Come on, Pepper and Salt, and tell Jack the Fire-Dog what you know about the blind kid’s mother.”

The black and white pigeon hopped fearlessly up to the two dogs, and modestly began his story:—

“You see, I can go ‘most anywhere because I’m lame and nobody would hurt a lame pigeon.”

“Except Dick the Scrapper,” cooed a young pigeon in tones too low to reach the Scrapper himself.

“Our friend the sparrow here had told me about the sick woman. He was pretty sure it was the blind kid’s mother, but he didn’t dare to go too near. (You know some people don’t like to have sparrows around.) So I agreed to light on the window-sill and try to find out more. The sick woman has begun to sit up now, and every day at about noon she sits in an armchair close to the window. She looks awfully sick yet. Well, the nurse who takes care of her sprinkled some crumbs on the window-sill, and when I ate them she was ever so pleased. ‘I believe he would let us touch him, he looks so tame,’ she said one day; and the nurse said, ‘I don’t believe it, he’d fly off if you put your hand out towards him.’ I didn’t, though, and she was more pleased still when I hopped in and let her stroke my feathers. ‘Poor little thing, he’s lame!’ she said when she saw my crippled foot. ‘Oh, how my poor little boy would love you! He couldn’t see you, though, for he’s blind!’ and then she fell to crying and wondering what had become of her poor blind boy. The nurse tried to comfort her, and I did my best to make her understand that the blind kid was all right; but she didn’t take in what I said. I go to see her every day, and rack my brains to think of some way of bringing them together. I’ve tried to make Reordan follow me, but he hadn’t sense enough to know what I wanted. So what can we do about it?”

“Nothing that I know of,” replied Jack. “So long as humans can’t understand our language so well as we understand theirs, they will be greatly hampered. It is a great misfortune.”

The bull-dog Boxer had listened with much interest to the stories of the sparrow and the pigeon, occasionally licking his chops or shivering slightly,—signs that he was deeply moved. As the Fire-Dog finished his remark, he growled out,—

“Force them to it! That’s the only way!”

“But how?” asked the Fire-Dog. “That’s easier said than done. How would you propose going to work?”

“Seize them by the trouser’s leg and make them follow you.”

“And be taken for a mad dog,” remarked Jack.

“I shouldn’t care what they took me for,” replied Boxer, “so long as I carried my point. If I once got a good grip, they’d follow.”

“Unless the trousers gave way,” remarked the Fire-Dog. “I’d bet on your grip, Boxer. But, after all, that wouldn’t work, you know. We’ve got to wait until the humans find out about it in their own slow way.”

A country wagon came by just then, and away fluttered the pigeons and sparrows. Under the wagon trotted the large farm-dog who had told the Fire-Dog about Toby.

“Any news of Toby?” he called out when he caught sight of the Fire-Dog.

“Not much. I know where he is, though. I’ve seen him.”

“You don’t say so? Well, why doesn’t he come home? He hasn’t gone back on his old friends, has he? They say city life is kind of enticing. I never had any desire to try it myself.”

“He has fallen into kind hands,” replied the Fire-Dog. “They are poor people, but kind. I gave him your message, and he said he meant to escape the first chance that offered. He may and then again he may not. He struck me as kind of soft. Not a great deal of spirit, I should say.”

“You struck it right,” replied the farm-dog. “There isn’t a better-meaning dog than Toby, but he isn’t very strong-minded.”

“From what I have heard about him, he must be a perfect fool,” growled Boxer.

“Have you seen him?” inquired the farm-dog, bristling at once, for dogs don’t like to have their friends insulted.

“No, and I don’t want to,” growled Boxer. “Hearing is bad enough, let alone seeing.”

“Will you be kind enough to make that statement again?” asked the farm-dog, marching up to the bull-dog with his legs and tail very stiff, and a ridge of hair standing up straight on his back.

“As many times as you like,” replied the bull-dog, who had risen to his feet and had begun to walk in a wide circle around the farm-dog.

“Now look here,” said the Fire-Dog, “fighting isn’t allowed on our premises. If you want to fight, you must do it somewhere else. For my part, I don’t see any occasion for fighting. I’ve led such a busy life that I haven’t had any time to waste in that way, even if I had had the inclination for it.”

“This is a question of honor,” replied the farm-dog, “and there is only one way for dogs of spirit to settle it. Your friend there has insulted a friend of mine, and unless he takes back his words we will fight it out.”

“Take back my words?” growled Boxer. “What do you take me for?”

At this point a sudden and unexpected interruption came. The gong in the engine-house struck sharply. The three grays came rushing out of their stalls, and took their places in front of the engine. The harness was let down from the pulleys that held it, and fastened into place. The fire under the boiler was lighted, the driver was in his seat, the men on the engine, and with a clatter of hoofs out they dashed, Jack barking his maddest and bounding ahead in such excitement that all other thoughts were driven out of his head.

As for the two dogs who a moment before were ready to engage in mortal combat, they were so engrossed by the sudden interruption and the excitement, that for the time everything else was forgotten. To the farm-dog this was a novel sight, different from the way they did things in his quiet town, and not a particle of the scene escaped him. The bull-dog, with his natural pertinacity, was the first to return to the subject of their late quarrel; but the farm-dog’s owner, who had missed him, came back to hunt him up, and led him off, much to his disappointment and the bull-dog’s also.

“Wait till the next time!” he snarled as he was led away.

“You’ll find me on hand!” growled Boxer.

Boxer was not usually so ill-natured as he appeared in this episode, but it is true that he was of a peppery disposition, and not averse to picking a quarrel. He would have given anything to have been a fire-dog like Jack, and his disposition had become rather soured in consequence. He was a steadfast friend, on the whole, and would have given his life, if necessary, for his old friend Jack, whose good disposition made him beloved of all.

So Boxer departed for home, thinking hard all the way, for he was a conscientious dog in spite of his pugnacious temper, and, although he would not have acknowledged it, he secretly wished that he had not been so disagreeable to the farm-dog.

“What is the reason,” said Boxer to himself, “that when I so much desire friends, I do the very thing to turn them against me? I suppose it is because I was born so and can’t help it.”

If the farm-dog had seen the bull-dog on his return, playing with his master’s little children, he would never have recognized him as the same dog. They rolled over together on the floor, and no lap-dog could have been gentler or more considerate than the bull-dog with his massive jaws and grim expression. Thus it is with bull-dogs.