Белая птичка
The Fight For Timothy
Bernardsitsdown,makingthenoiseofasackofcoalssuddenlydeposited,and,layinghisheadbetweenhisfrontpaws,staresatmethroughtheredhawsthatmakehiseyessomournful.Hewilldothisforanhourwithoutblinking,forheknowsthatintimeitwillunmanme.Mydogknowsverylittle,butwhatlittlehedoesknowheknowsextraordinarilywell.Onecangetoutofmychambersbyabackway,andIsometimesstealsoftly—butIcan’thelplookingback,andthereheis,andtherearethosehawsaskingsorrowfully,“Isthisworthyofyou?”
“Curseyou,”Isay,“getyourhat,”orwordstothateffect.
Hehasevenbeentotheclub,wherehewaddlesupthestairssoexactlylikesomerespectedmemberthathemakeseverybodymostuncomfortable.IforgethowIbecamepossessorofhim.IthinkIcuthimoutofanoldnumberofPunch.Hecostsmeasmuchasaneight-roomedcottageinthecountry.
Hewasafull-growndogwhenIfirst,mostfoolishly,introducedhimtotoys.Ihadboughtatoyinthestreetformyownamusement.Itrepresentedawoman,ayoungmother,flingingherlittlesonoverherheadwithonehandandcatchinghimintheother,andIwasentertainingmyselfonthehearth-rugwiththisprettydomesticscenewhenIheardanunwontedsoundfromPorthos,and,lookingup,Isawthatnobleandmelancholiccountenanceonthebroadgrin.Ishudderedandwasforputtingthetoyawayatonce,buthesternlystruckdownmyarmwithhis,andsignedthatIwastocontinue.
