# Bing/Chapter 7

Bing was never a great trick dog, not that he did not have the capacity to learn tricks, but his master did not have time to teach them to him. Yet he invented many little tricks of his own that were most clever for a dog, and showed considerable reasoning power.
One morning in early spring Mrs. Browning discovered Bing in the yard gnawing a well-polished ham-bone. He had been working on this bone for two days, and the goodness was all gone out ​of it. As Mrs. Browning saw the dog working away wistfully at the meager bone, a bright idea came to her and she took the bone into the wood-shed and, with two or three sharp blows of the hatchet, split it from end to end, thus laying open a fine section of marrow, succulent, and very much to a dog's liking.
If any one had observed Bing the following morning, he might have seen him trotting hither and thither about the place, digging holes in the garden and also in some of Mrs. Browning's choicest flower-beds. Finally Bing came to the kitchen door and barked sharply, as he always did when he wanted to be let in or wished to attract the attention of his family. But Mrs. Browning was busy sweeping, so paid no attention to him. Then Bing ran barking towards the sidewalk, just as though the place had been invaded by at ​least half a dozen ugly tramps. Mrs. Browning at once went to the door, but no intruder was in sight. Instead, little Bing sat on the lower step looking up at her, grinning and wagging his tail furiously.
"What is it, Bing?" inquired his mistress.
Delighted at being recognized, the little hound trotted around to the wood-shed, looking back over his shoulder to see if his mistress was coming. Mrs. Browning who was an adept at dog language understood, so she followed, wondering what was up.
Bing stopped before the chopping-block and looked back imploringly at his mistress, saying, just as plainly as a dog could talk with his ears and tail: "Don't you see what a wonderful collection I've got. Please help me with them."
Mrs. Browning looked and, to her great ​surprise, saw at least twenty old bones piled up by the chopping-block. There were beef-bones and ham-bones, ribs and hock-bones, in all stages of disintegration. Some of them were so putrid that Mrs. Browning made Bing carry them away to the garden, but several of the most promising she split with the hatchet, and so provided the enterprising Bing with a good two-days' feast.
The one trick that Mr. Browning taught Bing was to put out a lighted match. The master would light a match and hold it out, saying, "Put it out, Bing," and he would fly at it like a little fury, striking with his paw until he had quite extinguished the flame. Then, if the smoldering match did not die down quick enough to suit him, he would take it in his mouth and so smother it.
This was a trick that greatly pleased ​Bing's friends, but the master was obliged to forbid the children lighting matches for Bing to put out, as it was too much of a fire hazard.
One day when the Browning family returned home after several hours' absence, they discovered that Bing's trick of putting out a match had stood the whole household in good stead. As soon as Mr. Browning opened the front door, he smelled smoke, and both he and the mistress hurried in to see what was the matter. Bing at once led them to the living-room where a large hole had been burned in the best rug. A spark had probably snapped from the fireplace and ignited the rug during their absence, but all traces of the fire were now extinguished.
"I wonder how it happened to go out of its own accord," said Mrs. Browning.
"I don't think it did," replied her hus​band. "Take a look at Bing's nose and his paws."
His suggestion was a good one, for both the nose and paws were black with smoke and the dog's nose was slightly burned.
"Good dog," said Mr. Browning. "So you were the little fireman that put out the fire," and Bing acknowledged his part in the happening as well as a dog could.
Every evening when Mrs. Browning went down cellar to look at the furnace, Bing always went with her, if he was around. Sometimes he would investigate rat holes excitedly or dig holes of his own accord, but usually he would sit on the top of the wood-pile near by, observing every movement of his mistress.
One evening the two had gone to the cellar as usual and, after raking out the coals beneath the grate and leaving them on the cement floor to cool, Mrs. Brown​ing stooped down to pick up the coal shovel which had tumbled down from its position near the coal-bin. As she did so, the bottom of her skirt touched the glowing coals. It was only for an instant, but it was just long enough for the dress to ignite. There was a spurt of bright flame, and Mrs. Browning sprang to her feet with a scream of fright.
But the little fireman from his perch on the wood-pile had seen the sudden tongue of flame and, in two bounds, he was by his mistress' side. He caught the skirt in his teeth and pulled at it vehemently, beating frantically at the blazing dress with his paws. The flames were several times beaten out, but they would flash up again. Finally Bing gave a desperate wrench, and most of the smoking, blazing dress was torn from his beloved mistress, and the little fireman valiantly beat out ​the last of the flame, once he had the dress on the floor.
It all happened so quickly that Mrs. Browning hardly knew what had taken place, but she did realize that her back was smarting and burning, and that most of her dress was gone. So she hurried up-stairs and called to Mr. Browning to bring her her bathrobe.
"Hurry," she said. "I have just escaped a terrible accident."
There was so much excitement in getting another dress for the mistress and lotions for the burns that, for the time being, Bing was forgotten. Finally Mr. Browning went down cellar to discover what he was up to.
He found him groping blindly about the cellar, whimpering and trying vainly to feel his way to the cellar stairs. He made such bad work of it that Mr. Brown​ing picked him up in his arms and carried him up-stairs.
"His eyelids are swollen terribly," cried Mrs. Browning, "and his eyebrows are nearly burned off. His nose is blistered, and I do not think he can see a thing. See how he bumps into the furniture. I hope the poor little fellow is not going to be blind."
"Heaven forbid!" said Mr. Browning, and he hurried to the office to telephone for the veterinary.
"It is impossible for me to tell at present whether the eyesight is affected or not," said the dog doctor. "His eyelids are so badly swollen that it will take a day or two to get them open so we can see what shape his eyes are in. Don't worry; perhaps he will be all right."
So, for the next two or three days, instead of Bing being his master's eyes, his ​master was his eyes and gladly toted him about from room to room, placing him first on the couch and then on the window-seat in the living-room, which was his favorite bed. Finally, the swelling in the eyelids went down and the eyes that had been so alert before the accident again opened and, to the great joy of all, the veterinary pronounced the sight unimpaired, so little Bing again took his place as his master's eyes.
Each spring when it became warm enough, Bing's bed was moved from the kitchen to the garage where he had a fine kennel back of the car. The Brownings always felt easier about the place when Bing took up his quarters in the garage, as he could then come and go at any hour of the day or night and so keep a sharp watch over their property.
As soon as he moved into the garage, ​Bing himself changed his manner of living and slept more in the daytime and less at night, just as a well-trained watch-dog should. Even when he was asleep, he was on guard, for any unusual sound or scent would awaken him, so well were his senses trained to guard his master's property from all trespassing.
One morning about the first of April, the spring after he had rescued his mistress from the flames in the cellar, Bing suddenly awoke from a sound sleep and sprang up in his kennel. He did not usually get up until about daylight, but something out of the ordinary had aroused him, so he stuck his head cautiously out of the kennel door and sniffed the air appraisingly, while he listened with cocked ears for any unusual sound.
There was something about the air that he did not just like, so he crawled out of ​his kennel and felt his way in the darkness to a small opening which had been made in the garage door for his special use. As he thrust his head out in the open, a fresh puff of morning wind blew full in his face, and the mystery of his sudden awakening was plain. He smelled smoke. With a half-smothered growl, he trotted into the yard and looked about in every direction, but could not make out just where the smoke came from. Then, to his great astonishment, a lighted match, or what seemed to him to be a lighted match, came floating down out of the air above him and fell almost under his nose. He was upon it like a cat on a mouse, striking at the flame with his paws, and soon had it extinguished. But, almost immediately, another match fell in the grass close to him, and this one was much larger and brighter than the first had been, so ​he pounced on it and had quite a struggle in putting it out.
This had barely been accomplished when two more matches came sputtering down out of the air above and fell on either side of him. This was getting exciting, and he pounced first upon one and then upon the other, but before he had them out there were several more brightly blazing matches in the grass by him, and one of them started a small flame in the dead last year's grass. By this time Bing had scorched one paw and singed his nose, and still the blazing matches were all about him. What should he do? Summon some one? and he barked loudly for help. Surely his master would hear, even if his mistress did not, but no one came to his assistance. Then he heard the rapid explosive sound of a motorcycle crossing the street on the state road a hundred ​yards away. It must be his friend Jerry, the State policeman. He would go to him for assistance. Jerry would help him put out these hissing, sputtering matches which were too much for him. So he raced after the motorcycle policeman, trying to head him off before he had crossed the street and passed from sight.
Lieutenant Monyhan was very much surprised when Bing bore down upon him, barking frantically and racing after his motorcycle. Bing was usually a quiet dog and he had never seen him chase any vehicle before. What had got into him! But, as the motorcycle drew away from the dog, the officer plainly heard an appealing howl from poor Bing. Something must be the matter, so he slowed down his machine and turned to greet his friend.
Again, to his surprise, Bing came gal​loping up and seized him imperatively by the trouser leg and tugged away at his legging with all his might.
"Hold on, old chap. What is the matter, Bing? You'll tear my legging. Here, don't pull so hard! What has got into you?"
For answer Bing released his hold and started towards Sunshine Cottage, looking back over his shoulder to see if his friend, Jerry, was following him.
"Oh, ho," said the officer, "that's the idea, is it? You want me to come back with you, do you?"
Bing could not say yes, but he whimpered it so plainly that he made Jerry understand.
"All right, old pal," he said, "I'm coming." And he started after the dog, wheeling his motorcycle by his side.
Seeing that he had been understood, ​Bing was jubilant, but he made every possible effort to get his friend to hurry. Finally Jerry took the cue from the frenzied dog, now feeling sure that something serious was afoot.
As he trundled his motorcycle into the yard where he got a full view of the south side of the house, the reason for Bing's excitement was plain to him. The roof of the ell part of the house was blazing brightly, and a shower of sparks and small cinders was falling in the yard. These had been the matches that poor Bing had been unable to extinguish.
"Fire! Fire!" yelled Jerry at the top of his lungs, dropping his motorcycle and rushing up to the front door and pounding on it with might and main. Bing added his frantic barking to the efforts of his friend, but they could not arouse the people inside, so they went around to the ​back door, and again Jerry pounded and Bing barked.
"What in the dickens is the matter with them!" exclaimed the officer. "Can't we get in some way, Bing?"
And just as though the question had been understood, Bing shot through the small door in the garage and began jumping against another door which led from the garage to the kitchen. Jerry peered in through the window and saw what he was doing, so hurried to his assistance. Sure enough, this door into the kitchen was not locked, and the officer and the excited dog hurried into the smoke-filled room.
"Where are they, Bing?" exclaimed Jerry excitedly. "You lead the way."
But Bing did not need to be encouraged. He was racing ahead of his friend, quickly searching in this room and that, ​and all the time keeping up a frantic barking.
Then he led the way up-stairs, and Jerry followed close behind. There was not so much smoke here in the main part of the house as there had been in the ell, and they were soon pounding on the Brownings' bedroom door.
At this sound, Mr. Browning jumped out of bed.
"What is the matter?" he called. "Who is there?"
"It's me, Jerry," said the officer. "Get up and hurry about it; your house is on fire."
The Brownings needed no further admonitions, but, seizing what clothes they could in their arms, hurried after Bing and the officer down the stairway and out into the open.
At this moment the fire-engine came ​shrieking up the street and turned in at Bird Acre and, in a very few seconds, a large stream of water was playing on the ell part of Sunshine Cottage.
At this point in the exciting drama, Mrs. Browning uttered a little cry.
"Where is the Professor?" she exclaimed. "Has any one seen the Professor?"
No one had, so every one concluded that he must still be in the house.
"Can't some one go in and get my cat?" cried Mrs. Browning.
"No," replied a fireman who had already taken charge of the fire. "We can't risk our lives for an old cat."
But there was some one present over whom the fireman had no authority, and little Bing shot like a bullet, almost between the fireman's legs and into the house.
​"He has gone after the Professor," said Mr. Browning. "I hope he will find him."
"There is more chance that you will lose your dog, too," returned the fireman.
But his prophecy was a poor one, for in a minute or two, little Bing came struggling out of the front door, coughing and sneezing, but master of the situation, for his teeth were firmly set in the scruff of the Professor's neck and he was dragging him forth to safety.
Although he was merely a dog hero and the one for whom he had risked his life was just an old yellow cat, yet this exhibition of courage was not lost on the crowd, and a lusty cheer for little Bing went up from the spectators.
In fifteen minutes' time the fire was under control and in half an hour it was nearly out, but this was not until the ​wood-shed and the garage had been burned and Sunshine Cottage itself badly scorched. But the Brownings were very grateful to escape with such slight losses, and the hero of the entire dramatic happening was little Bing. For, had he not discovered the fire and summoned the officer to help him? Had he not led him to the bedroom of his sleeping master and mistress, and finally, through his own efforts and courage, had he not dragged the old Professor to safety? Surely, if there ever was a dog that deserved to be called a fireman, it was little Bing.