Chapter XV

by Susan Glaspell

　　As she looked back afterward upon that span of days, searching them,translating, Katie saw that the day of the golf and the dancing markedthe farthest advance.

　　After that it was as if Ann, frightened at finding herself so far out inthe open, shrank back into the shadows. But having gone a little way intothe open she was not again the same girl of the shadows. Her response tolife seeming thwarted, there came an incipient sullenness in her view ofthat life which she had reached over the bridge of make-believe.

　　It did not show itself at once, but afterward it seemed to Katie that thenext day marked the beginning of Ann's retreat on the bridge ofmake-believe.

　　And she wondered whether the stray dog or the dangerous literature hadmost to do with that retreat.

　　Ann was pale and quiet the day after the dance, and it was not merely thelanguor of the girl who has fatigued herself in having a good time.

　　At luncheon Katie suddenly demanded: "Wayne, where do you get dangerousliterature?"

　　"I don't know what form of danger you're courting, Katie. I have avaluable work on high explosives, and I have a couple of volumes of DeMaupassant."

　　"Oh I weathered all that kind of danger long ago," said she airily. "Iwant the kind that is distressing editors of church papers. The man whoedits this religious paper uncle sends me is a most unchristiangentleman. He devoted a whole page to talking about dangerous literatureand then didn't tell you where to get it. Well, I'll try Walt Whitman.He's very popular in the West, I'm told, and as the West likes dangerperhaps he's dangerous enough to begin on."

　　"And you feel, do you, Katie, that the need of your life just now isfor danger?"

　　"Yes, dear brother. Danger I must have at any cost. What's the goodliving in a dangerous age if you don't get hold of any of the danger?This unchristian editor says that little do we realize what a dangerousage it is. And he says it's the literature that's making it so. Then findthe literature. Only he—beast!—doesn't tell you where to."

　　Worth there requested the privilege of whispering in his Aunt Kate's ear.The ear being proffered, he poured into it: "I guess the man that mendsthe boats has got some dangerous literature, Aunt Kate."

　　"Tell him to endanger Aunt Kate," she whispered back.

　　"Do you suppose there is any way, Wayne," she began, after a moment ofseeming to have a very good time all to herself, "of getting back themoney we spent for my so-called education?"

　　"It would considerably enrich us," grimly observed Wayne.

　　"When doctors or lawyers don't do things right can't you sue them andget your money back? Why can't you do the same thing with educators? I'mgoing to enter suit against Miss Sisson. This unchristian editor saysmodern education is dangerous; but there was no danger in the course atMiss Sisson's. I want my money back."

　　"That you may invest it in dangerous literature?" laughed Wayne.

　　After he had gone Ann was standing at the window, looking down toward theriver. Suddenly she turned passionately upon Katie. "If you had ever hadanything to do with danger—you might not be so anxious to find it."

　　She was trembling, and seemed close to tears. Katie felt it no time toexplain herself.

　　And when she spoke again the tears were in her voice. "I can't tellyou—when I begin to talk about it—" The tears were in her eyes, too,then, and upon her cheeks. "You see—I can't—But, Katie—I wantyou to be safe. I want you to be safe. You don't know what itmeans—to be safe."

　　With that she passed swiftly from her room.

　　Katie sat brooding over it for some time. "If you've been in danger," sheconcluded, "you think it beautiful to be 'safe.' But if you've never beenanything but 'safe'—" Her smile finished that.

　　But Katie was more in earnest than her manner of treating herself mightindicate. To be safe seemed to mean being shielded from life. She hadalways been shielded from life. And now she was beginning to feel thatthat same shielding had kept her from knowledge of life, understanding ofit. Katie was disturbingly conscious of a great deal going on around herthat she knew nothing about. Ann wished her to be 'safe'; yet it was Annwho had brought a dissatisfaction with that very safety. It was Ann hadstirred the vague feeling that perhaps the greatest danger of all was inbeing too safe.

　　Katie felt an acute humiliation in the idea that she might be living in adangerous age and knowing nothing of the danger. She would rather braveit than be ignorant of it. Indeed braving it was just what she was keenfor. But she could not brave it until she found it.

　　She would find it.

　　But the next afternoon she went over to the city with Ann and foundnothing more dangerous than a forlorn little stray dog.

　　It was evident that he had never belonged to anybody. It was written allover his thin, squirming little yellow body that he was Nobody'sdog—written just as plainly as the name of Somebody's dog would bewritten on a name-plate on a collar.

　　And it was written in his wistful little watery eyes, told by hisunconquerable tail, that with all his dog's heart he yearned to beSomebody's dog.

　　So he thought he would try Miss Katherine Wayneworth Jones.

　　She had a number of errands to do, and he followed her from place toplace.

　　She saw him first when she came out from the hair-dresser's. He seemedto have been waiting for her. His heart was too experienced in beingbroken for him to dance around her with barks of joy, but he stood alittle way off and wigglingly tried to ingratiate himself, his eyeslooking love, and the longing for love.

　　Impulsively Katie stooped down to him. "Poor little doggie, does hewant a pat?"

　　He fairly crouched to the sidewalk in his thankfulness for the pat, histail and eyes saying all they could.

　　Then she saw that he was following her. "Don't come with me, doggie," shesaid; "please don't. You must go home. You'll get lost."

　　But in her heart Katie knew he would not get lost, for to be sounfortunate as to be lost presupposed being so fortunate as to have ahome. And she knew that he was of the homeless. But because that was soterrible a thing to face, between him and her she kept up that pretenseof a home.

　　When she came out from the confectioner's he was waiting for her again, alittle braver this time, until Katie mildly stamped her foot and told himto "Go back!"

　　At the third place she expostulated with him. "Please, doggie, you'remaking me feel so badly. Won't you run along and play?"

　　The hypocrisy of that left a lump in her throat as she turned from him.

　　When she found him waiting again she said nothing at all, but begantalking to Ann about some flowers in a window across the street.

　　Ann had seemed to dislike the dog. She would step away when Katie stoppedto speak to him and be looking intently at something else, as if tryingnot to know that there were such things as homeless dogs.

　　Watts was waiting for them with the station wagon when they had finishedtheir shopping. After they had gone a little way Katie, in the manner ofone doing what she was forced to do, turned around.

　　He was coming after them. He had not yet fallen to the ranks of thosehuman and other living creatures too drugged in wretchedness to make afight for happiness. Nor was he finding it a sympathetic world in whichto fight for happiness. At that very moment a man crossing the street wasgiving him a kick. He yelped and crouched away for an instant, but hiseyes told that the real hurt was in the thought of losing sight of thecarriage that held Katie Jones. As he dodged in and out, crouching alwaysbefore the possible kick, she could read all too clearly how harassed hewas with that fear.

　　They were approaching the bridge. The guard on the bridge would foil thatquest. He would not permit a forlorn little yellow dog to seek happinessby following members of an officer's family across the Government bridge.Probably in the name of law and order he would kick him, as the other manhad done; the dog's bleared little eyes, eyes through which the lovelonging must look, would cast one last look after the unattainable, andthen, another hope gone, another promise unrealized, he would returnmiserably back to his loveless world, but always—

　　"Watts," said Katie sharply, "stop a moment, please. I want to getsomething."

　　Ann was sitting very straight, looking with great absorption up the riverwhen Katie got back in the carriage with her dog. Her face was pale, and,it seemed to Katie, hard. She moved as far away from the dog as shecould—her mouth set.

　　He sat just where Katie put him on the floor, trembling, and looking upat her with those asking eyes.

　　When they were almost home Ann spoke. "You can't take in all the homelessdogs of the world, Katie."

　　"I don't know that that's any reason for not taking in this one," replied

　　Katie shortly.

　　"I hate to have you make yourself feel badly," Ann said tremulously.

　　"Why shouldn't I let myself feel badly?" demanded Katie roughly. "In aworld of homeless dogs, why shouldn't I feel badly?"

　　They made a great deal of fun of Katie's dog. They named him "Pet."Captain Prescott wanted to know if she meant to exhibit him at a benchshow and mention various points he was sure would excite attention.

　　"What I hate, Katie," said Wayne, "is the way he cringes. None of thatcringing about Queen."

　　"And why not?" she demanded hotly. "Because Queen was never kicked.Because Queen was never chased down alleys by boys with rocks and tincans. Because Queen never asked for a pat and got a cuff. Nor did Queen'smother. Queen hasn't a drop of kicked blood in her. This sorry little dogcomes from a long line of the kicked and the cuffed. And then you blamehim for cringing. I'm ashamed of you, Wayne!"

　　He was about to make laughing retort, but Katie's cheeks were so red, hereyes so bright, that he refrained and turned to Ann with: "Katie wasalways great for taking in all kinds of superfluous things."

　　"Yes," said Ann, "I know."

　　"And she always takes her outcasts so very seriously."

　　"Yes," agreed Ann.

　　"The trouble is, she can't hope to make them over."

　　"No," admitted Ann, "she can't do that."

　　"And then she breaks her heart over their forlorn condition."

　　"Yes," said Ann.

　　"These wretched things exist in the world, but Katie only makes her ownlife wretched in trying to do anything about them. She can't reach farenough to count, so why make herself unhappy?"

　　"Katie doesn't look at it that way," replied Ann, and turned away.

　　After the others had gone Katie committed her new dog to Worth. "Honey,will you play with him sometimes? I know he's not as nice to play with asthe puppies, but maybe that's because nobody ever did play with him. Thethings that aren't nice about him aren't his fault, Worthie, so wemustn't be hard on him for them, must we? The reason he's so queer actingis just because he never had anybody to love him."

　　Worth was so impressed that he not only accepted the dog himself butvolunteered to say a good word for him to Watts.

　　But a little later he brought back word that Watts said the newcomer wasan ornery cur—that he was born an ornery cur—that he was meant to be anornery cur, and never would be anything but an ornery cur.

　　"Watts is what you might call a conservative," said Katie.

　　And not being sure how a conservative member of the United States Armywould treat a canine child of the alley, Katie went herself to the stablethat night to see that the newcomer was fed and made to feel at home.

　　He did not appear to be feeling at all at home. He was crouching in hiscomfortable corner just as dejectedly as he would crouch in the mostmiserable alley his native city afforded.

　　He came, thankfully but cringingly, out to see Katie. "Doggie," said she,"don't be so apologetic. I don't like the apologetic temperament. Youwere born into this world. You have a right to live in it. Why don't youassert your right?"

　　His answer was to look around for the possible tin can.

　　Watts had approached. "Begging your pardon, Miss Jones, but he's theungrateful kind. There's no use trying to do anything for that kind. He'sdeservin' no better than he gets. He snapped at one of our own pupsto-night."

　　"I suppose so," said Kate. "I suppose when you spend your life asking forpats and getting kicks you do get suspicious and learn to snap. It seemstoo bad that little dogs that want to be loved should have to learn tosnarl. You see, Watts, he's had a hard life. He's wandered up and down aworld where nobody wanted him. He's spent his days trying now this one,now that. 'Maybe they'll take me,' he thinks; his poor little heart warmsat the thought that maybe they will. He opens it up anew every day—opensit for a new wound. And now that he's found somebody to say the kind wordhe's still expecting the surly one. His life's shut him out fromlife—even though he wants it. It seems to me rather sad, Watts."

　　Watts was surveying him dubiously. "That kind is deserving what they get.

　　They couldn't have been no other way. And beggin' your pardon, Miss

　　Jones, but it's not us that's responsible for his life."

　　"Isn't it?" said Katie. "I wonder."

　　Watts not responding to the suggestion of the complexity ofresponsibility, she sought the personal. "As a favor to me, Watts, willyou be good to the little dog?"

　　"As a favor to you, Miss Jones," said Watts, making it clear that forhis part—

　　"Watts," she asked, "how long have you been in the service?"

　　"'Twill be five years in December, Miss Jones."

　　"Re-enlistment must mean that you like it."

　　"I've no complaint to offer, Miss Jones. Of course there are sometimes afew little things—"

　　"Why did you enter the army, Watts?"

　　"A man has to make a living some way, Miss Jones."

　　Katie was thinking that she had not asked for an apology.

　　"And yet I presume you could make more in some other way. Working inthese shops, for instance."

　　"There's nothin' sure about them," said Watts.

　　"The army's certain. And I like things to move on decent and orderlylike. For one that's willing to recognize his betters, the service is agood place, Miss Jones."

　　"But I suppose there are some not willing to recognize their betters,"ventured Kate.

　　"There's all too many such," said Watts. "All too many nowadays thinksthey're just as good as them that's above them."

　　"But you never feel that way, so you are contented and like theservice, Watts?"

　　"Yes, Miss. It suits me well enough, Miss Jones. I'm not one to think Ican make over the world. There's a fellow workin' up here at the point Isometimes have some conversation with. I was up there to-night atsundown—me and the little boy. Now there's a man, Miss, that don't knowhis place. He's a trouble-maker. He said to me tonight—"

　　But as Watts was there joined by a fellow-soldier Katie said: "Thank youfor looking out for the poor little dog, Watts," and turned reluctantlyto the house.

　　She would like to have remained; she would like to have talked with theother soldier and found out why he entered the service and what hethought of it. She was possessed of a great desire to ask peoplequestions, find out why they had done what they did and what they thoughtabout things other people were doing. Her mind was sending out littleshoots in all directions and those little shoots were begging for foodand drink.

　　She wished she might have a long talk with the "trouble-maker." Shewould like to talk about dogs who had lived in alleys and dogs that hadbeen reared in kennels, about soldiers who were willing to recognizetheir betters and soldiers who thought they were as good as some abovethem. She would like to talk about Watts. Watts was the son of an oldEnglish servant. It was in Watts' blood to "recognize his betters." Wasthat why he could be moved to no sense of responsibility about straydogs? Was that why he was a good man for the service and had noambitions as civilian?

　　And Ann—she would like to talk to the boat-mending trouble-maker aboutAnn: Why Ann, whom one would expect to find sympathetic with thehomeless, should be so hard and so queer about forlorn little straydogs. Oh the world was just full of things that Katie Jones wanted totalk about that night!

　　When she reached the house she found that she had just received apackage by special messenger. She tore off the outer wrapper and on theinner was written in red ink: "Danger." Murmuring some inane thing aboutits being her shoes, she ran with the package to her room. For a youngwoman who had all her life received packages of all kinds she wasinordinately excited.

　　It held three books. One of them was about women who worked. Therewere pictures of girls working in factories and in different places.One was something about evolution, and one was on socialism. And therewas a pamphlet about the United States Army, and another pamphletabout religion.

　　She looked for a name in the books, but found none. The fly-leaves hadbeen torn out.

　　She was not sorry; she was just as glad to go on thinking of hertrouble-maker as the man who mended the boats. There was somethingfreeing about keeping him impersonal.

　　But in the book about women she found an envelope addressed: "To onelooking for trouble."

　　This was what was type-written on the single sheet it contained:

　　"Here are a couple of books warranted to disturb one's peace of mind.They are marked danger as both warning and commendation. It is absolutelyguaranteed that one will not be so pleased with the world—and with one'sself—after reading them. There is more—both books and danger—wherethey came from."

　　It was signed: "One who loves to lead adventurous souls intodangerous paths."

　　It was two o'clock when Katie turned off her light that night.