Read Online The World Within by Jane Eagland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Eagland
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head, one of his favorite tricks, causing the dog to go mad — he dances round them, letting out a volley of barks.
“What is going on?” Aunt is standing on the landing, looking down at them, her face screwed up as if she’s sucking lemons. She presses her hand to her forehead. “What is that dog doing here, Patrick?”
Her tone is sharp enough to quell them all, even the dog, who puts his tail between his legs and whines. Emily drops to her knees to comfort him and he licks her face.
Papa looks slightly abashed. “Well, now, as it happens, this fellow’s a stray. He turned up the other day at the Braithwaites’ farm. The thing is — they don’t want him. When I was over there this afternoon, Joseph said they’ve already the two dogs and that’s enough.”
“And you’re not thinking of keeping it, surely? The house is overrun with creatures as it is, what with those injured birds the children keep bringing home and that wretched cat ruining the furniture with his claws. We certainly don’t want any more.” Aunt’s disapproval is clear in every rigid line of her body.
Emily stops breathing. She looks up at Papa, willing him with every fiber of her being not to give in.
Papa hesitates a long moment and then he says, “I am. We can give you a good home, can’t we, boy?” and he pats the dog’s head.
Emily breathes again. She gives a piercing whistle and the dog pricks up its ears.
Aunt erupts. “ Emily! How many times do I have to tell you — a lady never whistles.” With a sniff and a twitch of her shawl, she turns away from them all, throwing over her shoulder as she stalks back upstairs, “I hope, at least, that that animal’s going to live in the peat house.”
They wait until they hear the door to her room shutting and then they look at one another and grin.
Anne appeals to Papa. “He won’t have to live outside, will he?”
Papa ruffles her hair. “No, but he must sleep in the back kitchen and you’d best keep him out of your aunt’s way.”
“What about Tiger?” Emily says immediately. “He won’t like sharing his sleeping quarters with a dog.”
“Well, how about moving Tiger to the kitchen? He’ll like it by the range, won’t he?”
“What kind of dog is he?” Branwell wants to know.
Papa puts his head on one side, considering. “Well, he puts me in mind of the Irish terrier we had when I was a boy, and if there’s anything of that in him, he’ll make a fine watchdog. What with him and my pistol we’ll all be safe in our beds.”
“What are we going to call him?” Emily is anxious. Names matter — just as much for animals as for people — so it’s important to choose the right one.
Papa smiles at her. “Well, now, as to that, I’ve had an idea.” He beckons them to follow him.
“I’m choosing Bosun,” announces Branwell. “Like Lord Byron’s dog.”
To Tabby’s bemusement, after shutting Tiger in the back kitchen, Papa has instructed each of them to stand in a different corner of the kitchen. He’s holding the dog in the middle and when he gives the signal, they are to call with their name of choice.
Emily narrows her eyes. Typical Branwell. He fancies himself Byron. But Bosun is a good name. She wishes she’d thought of it first.
“I’m having Charlie,” says Anne peaceably. “What about you, Emily?”
“I’m still thinking.” Emily is studying the dog, noticing the lively glint in his brown eyes, the set of his long jaws. He looks as if once he’s got a hold on something, he won’t let go easily.
Papa says, “Ready?” And he lets go of the dog.
They all shout at once.
“Bosun!”
“Charlie!”
“Grasper!”
The dog, confused, looks from one to another. He makes a move toward Branwell and Emily’s heart skips a beat, but she goes on calling, keeping her voice low but insistent. “Grasper, here boy!”
The dog turns his head and meets her eye. He hesitates a moment and then with a sudden joyful bound he is licking
“What is going on?” Aunt is standing on the landing, looking down at them, her face screwed up as if she’s sucking lemons. She presses her hand to her forehead. “What is that dog doing here, Patrick?”
Her tone is sharp enough to quell them all, even the dog, who puts his tail between his legs and whines. Emily drops to her knees to comfort him and he licks her face.
Papa looks slightly abashed. “Well, now, as it happens, this fellow’s a stray. He turned up the other day at the Braithwaites’ farm. The thing is — they don’t want him. When I was over there this afternoon, Joseph said they’ve already the two dogs and that’s enough.”
“And you’re not thinking of keeping it, surely? The house is overrun with creatures as it is, what with those injured birds the children keep bringing home and that wretched cat ruining the furniture with his claws. We certainly don’t want any more.” Aunt’s disapproval is clear in every rigid line of her body.
Emily stops breathing. She looks up at Papa, willing him with every fiber of her being not to give in.
Papa hesitates a long moment and then he says, “I am. We can give you a good home, can’t we, boy?” and he pats the dog’s head.
Emily breathes again. She gives a piercing whistle and the dog pricks up its ears.
Aunt erupts. “ Emily! How many times do I have to tell you — a lady never whistles.” With a sniff and a twitch of her shawl, she turns away from them all, throwing over her shoulder as she stalks back upstairs, “I hope, at least, that that animal’s going to live in the peat house.”
They wait until they hear the door to her room shutting and then they look at one another and grin.
Anne appeals to Papa. “He won’t have to live outside, will he?”
Papa ruffles her hair. “No, but he must sleep in the back kitchen and you’d best keep him out of your aunt’s way.”
“What about Tiger?” Emily says immediately. “He won’t like sharing his sleeping quarters with a dog.”
“Well, how about moving Tiger to the kitchen? He’ll like it by the range, won’t he?”
“What kind of dog is he?” Branwell wants to know.
Papa puts his head on one side, considering. “Well, he puts me in mind of the Irish terrier we had when I was a boy, and if there’s anything of that in him, he’ll make a fine watchdog. What with him and my pistol we’ll all be safe in our beds.”
“What are we going to call him?” Emily is anxious. Names matter — just as much for animals as for people — so it’s important to choose the right one.
Papa smiles at her. “Well, now, as to that, I’ve had an idea.” He beckons them to follow him.
“I’m choosing Bosun,” announces Branwell. “Like Lord Byron’s dog.”
To Tabby’s bemusement, after shutting Tiger in the back kitchen, Papa has instructed each of them to stand in a different corner of the kitchen. He’s holding the dog in the middle and when he gives the signal, they are to call with their name of choice.
Emily narrows her eyes. Typical Branwell. He fancies himself Byron. But Bosun is a good name. She wishes she’d thought of it first.
“I’m having Charlie,” says Anne peaceably. “What about you, Emily?”
“I’m still thinking.” Emily is studying the dog, noticing the lively glint in his brown eyes, the set of his long jaws. He looks as if once he’s got a hold on something, he won’t let go easily.
Papa says, “Ready?” And he lets go of the dog.
They all shout at once.
“Bosun!”
“Charlie!”
“Grasper!”
The dog, confused, looks from one to another. He makes a move toward Branwell and Emily’s heart skips a beat, but she goes on calling, keeping her voice low but insistent. “Grasper, here boy!”
The dog turns his head and meets her eye. He hesitates a moment and then with a sudden joyful bound he is licking
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