# A Gentleman From France/Chapter 7

That night Pierre dug into a corn shock and was very glad of the protection of the coarse corn-stalks. It was now October and the nights were rather chilly. Pierre, being a pampered pet, felt the cold much more than the ordinary dog. At the château he had slept upon a soft moquette rug, or on the actress's own bed. Even in the private car he had possessed a velvet rug; and now to be thrust out into the cold world made him shiver.
He could not get to sleep for some time. This life was not like anything that he had ever known. It was more like the rough life that he had led with the Colonel. But even that was different. The Colo​nel had always petted him, and that was what he missed now. It was not so much that his bed was uncomfortable, as it was that his dog heart craved love.
Love had always been lavished upon him even from his puppy days with old Jean. He had not known then what a priceless thing it was.
The following morning he crawled out very early. In the private car he had been in the habit of sleeping late, just as the actress did. But it was cold on this October morning, so he crawled out of his cornstalk bed and ran for half a mile to get warm.
There was frost on the dead grass. It was white and sparkling and very cold. Pierre had never seen any frost in sunny France.
First the Airedale slaked his thirst at ​a brook and that made him feel better. Then it was that he noted that he was prodigiously hungry. My, but what would he not give to be back in the car eating his porterhouse steak! Wow, wouldn't a raw egg taste good!
So Pierre started on a foraging expedition. He must remember some of his sorry lessons of the day before. He must not go into another dog's yard unless he was invited. He must not run after another dog's team. He must keep away from soldiers, because the soldiers here were not like the young Jean men in France, nor like his good master, the Colonel. Instead of petting you, they threw things at you.
He must not get on that strange straight road where his mistress's car travelled. If he did, the shrieking monster would ​chase him. Wow, wow! What a fright it had given him. He certainly would keep away from that roadway with the straight shining sticks.
So with all these precautions firmly in mind, Pierre did not get into as much trouble that day as he had the day before; but he did not find anything to eat for a long time. Gradually he learned a very sorry lesson which made his running away much harder to bear. Whenever he appeared at a farmhouse where there was another dog, that dog usually barked at him and drove him away. If there wasn't any dog, the people drove him away. Sometimes they merely shouted, but more often they threw things at him.
So the painful fact that he was an outcast was gradually driven home to the luckless Pierre. From being the petted ​and pampered favorite of the great lady, he had gone at one bound into a world that gave him the cold shoulder on every hand.
No one in the whole world wanted him. He did not belong to any one. Other dogs owned houses, and had masters and mistresses.
Other dogs owned teams and could run behind them. Other dogs had queer little houses that they slept in in the back yard.
Pierre had never seen a kennel in France, but he did envy these American dogs sticking their heads out of their cute little houses.
So as the day drew on to its close a great sense of loneliness and heartsickness came over Pierre. If some one would only speak to him, or whistle for him to come. He would give almost anything if he ​could only feel a human hand on his head, or some one running his ears through their fingers.
Also, the pangs of hunger were gnawing at his vitals, and this double discomfort was almost unendurable. But about dusk he spied a man dumping some refuse in an open lot. The man was shoveling it from a wagon. A dog was lying on the grass watching him. So Pierre knew the man and team belonged to that dog.
Finally the man finished and drove away, and the dog trotted after the team. From where he was hiding behind a fence watching them, Pierre thought he could smell raw meat. When he finally crept up to where the team had been, he discovered that it was indeed raw meat. But it was not the sort he was used to.
Porterhouse? Well, I should say not. ​The man was a butcher and the meat was the refuse from a steer that he had killed that afternoon.
Pierre tasted a piece and it made him gag so he spit it out. Then he tried another piece, but that was just as bad.
So he went all through the pile trying vainly to find something to his liking. At last he sat down on his tail before the sorry meat and a great sense of homesickness and loneliness came over him. It was so great that although he was an Airedale and a dog with a stout heart, yet he lifted his muzzle and howled dismally.
Pierre was so wrapt in grief and so overpowered with a sense of his loss that he did not even notice the Killer until he heard a deep growl almost beside him. Wheeling sharply, he came face to face with the ugliest-looking old bulldog that ​he had ever seen. He was a dirty white. His ears were chewed to ribbons and he had lost one eye. His coat was rusty. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips were wrinkled up into an habitual snarl. He looked so belligerent that Pierre instinctively drew back.
"Growl, growl, growl," said the Killer wrinkling his lips up still further. "If you ain't a pretty purp to sit here on your aristocratic tail howling like a fool, when there is such a fine dinner right here before your very nose."
"Ki-i, yi-i," whimpered Pierre. "But I tried to eat it and I couldn't. It made me sick. It is vile stuff."
The old bull drew back and looked at Pierre intently for several seconds; then he resumed his deep growling. Pierre finally decided this growling did not mean ​very much, but the old fellow had gotten into the habit of growling about everything; it was sort of second nature with him.
"Couldn't eat it, did you say? Made you sick? Well, my fine dandy, you must be somebody's woolly lamb dog. You must be a sort of blanket poodle. Might I inquire just who you are and where you came from?"
Pierre did not notice the irony in the old bull's tones and was all eagerness to tell his story. He wagged his tail vehemently and smiled his very best dog smile.
"You see," he said, edging up close to the old fighter and becoming confidential, "I am a stranger in these parts. My home is in France.
"That is away off, far across the great water. We came in a mighty floating ​house. There were lots of folks and a few dogs.
"My mistress is a very great lady. She goes about in a house on wheels. Lots of people came to see us. They all used to pet me and Mistress would tell them how smart I was. You see I am a war hero. This is my War Cross on the chain about my neck."
But instead of admiring him as Pierre had expected, the old bull growled still more savagely than before. His one eye also seemed to be watching Pierre suspiciously. Finally the Killer spoke between deep growls.
"You are a four-flusher," he said. "You can't pull that stuff on me. I ain't a woolly lamb, purp. I wasn't born yesterday. You are a four-flusher."
"What is that?" asked Pierre timidly. ​"Is it something good? Do men like it? They all like me. So do the women when they know me—all but Marie."
"You are a four-flusher," repeated the Killer. "That ain't anything good, either. You are a liar, a cheat, a pretender, a hoax.
"You are a cheat. You a War Dog, a hero! Wow, wow, wow! I am half a mind to shake you up for trying to put such a yarn over on me. Don't do it any more, my fine fellow, if you don't want your sleek coat chewed up a bit. I am a rough one, I am. I could chew the nose off you in just about a minute," and he growled even more savagely.
"I didn't mean to offend you," whimpered Pierre. "But I am a War——"
"We won't say any more about that," growled the old bull. "You just sit there
​on your tail and watch me while I make my supper. I am as hungry as a—a—a——"
But the old bull's mouth was so full of the dirty meat that he could not finish the sentence.
For several minutes Pierre watched him and, as his hunger seemed almost unbearable, he tried again to eat some of the meat.
But the way in which he worried down a bit here and a morsel there quite disgusted the Killer.
"My eye!" he growled. "I should think you was a dandy. What did they feed you on, anyhow?"
"The very best of steak and raw eggs and cake and cream," whimpered Pierre. "This meat almost makes me vomit."
"Don't try to pull any more of your lies ​on me, or I will shake you up. But you do look and act like a dandy. I hate dandies. Their fine coats always make me want to roll them in the mud.
"I don't know why I didn't you. But there is something about you I rather like. You look like a thoroughbred. I have some pedigree myself. You wouldn't believe it to see me now.
"But my sire was a blue-ribbon dog at the New York bench and my dam could chew the ear off any thoroughbred bull that ever ran on four legs. She was a terror, she was. I take after her. But still I have got the pedigree. Mighty little good it does me now. I have seen better days, my fine fellow. I suppose you reminded me of it. That was why I spoke to you instead of chewing you up. When you are through picking about, I ​will take you for an enterprise that is worth while.
"Perhaps we may taste warm blood. Wow, but I am thirsty for it. If you are a War Dog and have smelled gunpowder, you wouldn't be afraid. But you needn't join me if you don't want to.
"You don't look much like a War Dog. I guess you are a four-flusher."