# Bing/Chapter 5

Until the coming of the little fellow into his life, Bing had never cared very much for children; in fact, his attitude towards them had been either one of suspicion or indifference. There were no children at Sunshine Cottage, and, while many parties of young people came to visit Mr. Browning because of his books for children, yet Bing had had little to ​do with them, because he was usually out in the kitchen or somewhere outside when these visits took place. But with the coming of the little fellow, his attitude towards children was changed. The little fellow was Mr. Browning's nephew, and he was as sweet a little boy as ever wore a natty sailor suit or smiled up at you from under a jaunty sailor hat. According to his own statement, he was half-past five, which meant that he was born on the first day of December, and when he and his parents visited the Brownings, everybody and everything was "knee-deep in June."
When the visitors arrived, there was much excitement at Sunshine Cottage, and Bing at once retreated to the kitchen where he stood in the doorway eyeing the newcomers curiously. As soon as the little fellow discovered him, he shouted with delight and rushed to the kitchen, but ​Bing at once retreated under the range. This was his favorite refuge when he was tired and wanted to sleep. The little fellow got down on his hands and knees and tried to coax him out. Bing growled warningly, but would not come forth.
It was not an ugly growl, but just one of admonishment. It seemed to say: "Go away, boy, I do not know you! We are not friends yet."
The little fellow ran to his uncle in great surprise and climbed up into his lap.
"Why doesn't Bing like me?" he asked in an injured tone. "Every one likes me, down where I live."
"Oh, you mustn't mind that," returned his uncle. "You see, Bing doesn't know you and he has never had much to do with children. As soon as he gets acquainted, you and he will be great pals. You just wait and see. Besides, he has ​had to guard the place from bad girls who steal flowers and bad boys who rob the pear-tree and berry-patch, so that has made him suspicious of children. But you wait for a few days. Be patient, and Bing will come to you himself and make friends!"
Bing did not at once declare friendship with the little fellow. For several days, he eyed him from a distance, but each day his curiosity as to this newcomer who was so much beloved by his master and mistress grew. Perhaps when he saw the little fellow climb into his own favorite resting-place, Mr. Browning's lap, he experienced a qualm of jealousy, but even this helped in breaking the ice. Finally one day, after about a week, Mr. Browning and his nephew were sitting on the front-door steps when Bing came around to the other side of his master and snug​gled up close to him. Mr. Browning reached down and took the little dog by the collar.
"You come around on this side," he said to the small boy. "I guess Bing is ready to have you pat his head."
Delighted with this prospect, the small boy hastened to do his uncle's bidding. At first Bing drew away, but finally consented to have his head stroked and his long, silky ears fondled. Presently he reached up and gave the little fellow a kiss on the cheek and then one on the mouth, and their friendship was sealed then and there.
Overjoyed with the progress he was making, the little boy put his arms around Bing's neck and hugged him with delight. From that day forth the two were inseparable and, wherever the little fellow went, Bing followed like a faithful shadow.
​With the coming of his nephew, the boy in Mr. Browning was reborn, and he made bows and arrows, quivers, and tomahawks, and all of the rest of the Indian regalia for his nephew. Soon a gaily decorated Indian was seen prowling about Bird Acre, with a faithful hunter following at his heels. They would creep forward with great stealth, stalking some imaginary quarry. If Bing became too excited and rushed forward, he was at once called back by his young master. Finally, the little fellow would kneel on one knee just like a picture of Hiawatha he had seen in a magazine, and the arrow would be discharged. Then both the Indian and the dog would rush forward to the kill.
One day both the little boy and Bing were missing, and for half an hour there was an excited hunt for them. Finally they were discovered in a neighbor's barn, ​asleep on some new-mown hay in a cow manger.
Often Bing and his little comrade would seek out Mr. Browning, when he was not busy writing books, and would entreat him to tell them a story. He very early evolved the plan of making Bing the hero of these stories, and this greatly delighted his nephew. The small boy and Bing would sit on either side of the man as he told the tales. In these stories Bing would be a hunter in a great forest, with his game-bag on his back, in search of strange and unheard-of animals. Finally, when one of these animals was discovered, there would be a terrible fight, at the end of which Bing would put the conquered quarry into his game-bag and return home.
During the telling of these tales the little boy often clapped his hands with de​light, while Bing, in best dog fashion, would thump his approval on the piazza floor with his tail.
On other occasions, the little fellow would get out his express wagon and two neighboring boys would serve as horses. The small boy would take his place in the front of the wagon as driver, and Bing would sit in the back. He sat up straight as a drum-major, and looked very pompous and important.
Whenever they met a pedestrian on the sidewalk, the little boy would stop his horses and, looking up with his most engaging smile, would ask: "Don't you love Bing, Mister?"
If the pedestrian replied: "Yes, of course I do," the smile he received was wonderful to behold. If, on the other hand, the pedestrian returned a doubtful answer, the little boy would look at him ​in undisguised astonishment and Bing himself would look reproachful.
If the passer-by was so ungracious as to say he did not care for dogs, the little boy was nearly reduced to tears, while Bing would look away in utter disgust.
Thus the summer passed and each day the friendship between the small boy and the dog grew.
Some of the very best times that the little boy had during that wonderful summer at Bird Acre were on those days when he went with his parents and Bing to Sandy Beach. This was a remarkable fresh-water beach at the foot of Broad Street.
As one journeyed down to Sandy Beach through the meadows, he went by a winding road bordered with tall, luxuriant, lush grass which rose and fell in the June breeze. The air was vibrant ​with the liquid song of the bobolink; the redwing also joined in with his o-ka-lee song; while the meadow-lark filled in the gaps with his high, shrill whistle. The meadows stretched away as far as eye could reach, while the twin mountains dreamed in the distance against a cerulean sky. Away to the south as far as eye could reach was a gateway where the river had cut its way through the solid rock as it journeyed to the sea. It was a scene of surpassing beauty; and a wonderful sense of peace was over all the landscape.
The little boy liked to dig in the sand, to make canals and inland lakes, as he called them, and, if he could catch some pollywogs or shiners to put in his lakes, his cup of joy was full. Bing loved to romp with him on the sand, or to sit on his tail watching the labors of his little master.
On one never-to-be-forgotten day when ​the little boy and Bing had tired of their play, and the father was lying in the sand looking at the blue mountains and trying to think out a new plan for cutting down overhead and increasing the profits in a great store in the distant city, and while the little boy's mother was reading an interesting book, the little fellow went wading. Usually the whole family took a swim, but on this special day the man was busy with his business problems and the woman with her book, so finally, after much pleading, the little boy was allowed to don his bathing-suit and to wade, but he promised faithfully not to venture in above his waist.
The beach was nearly deserted, the only other bathers being nearly a hundred yards away.
For a time the little boy amused himself close to the shore, but finally he be​came venturesome and waded out farther and farther. The beach was very sloping in most places, but at one point there was a treacherous shelf where the depth increased suddenly. This spot should have been marked by a red flag, but it was not. Suddenly the small boy threw up his arms and, without a sound, sank beneath the glittering surface of the great river. His father had been busy with his day-dreams at the time and his mother was engrossed in her book, so neither had seen the accident. The other bathers had been too far away to see, but there was one pair of faithful eyes that had seen his dilemma. Bing was on guard, watching each movement of his little master, so, when he threw up his arms and went down so mysteriously, the small hound sprang to his feet and rushed towards the water. In less time than it takes to tell it, he was ​swimming for the spot where his little master had disappeared.
Almost at the same instant the man sprang from his prone position on the sand and looked wildly about him; the woman dropped her book with a little cry. Neither had seen what had happened, yet both had had a sudden premonition of disaster.
"Where is the boy?" cried the man, looking wildly about in every direction.
"Oh, where is he?" echoed the woman. "The last I saw of him, he was wading close to the shore. Where is Bing? What's he doing swimming about out there?"
"Perhaps the boy is in the bushes. I will look," and the man hurried away, while the woman ran down the beach to ask the distant bathers if they had seen anything of a small boy.
​Meanwhile, faithful little Bing was treading water just above the spot where he had last seen his small master. Twice during his swim to the spot he had seen the small head appear just above the water, and he now waited to see if it came in sight again. A full minute he waited, treading water, but no small boy appeared, though he thought he could see him lying on the bottom just beneath the spot where he was swimming. I have never heard of a dog's diving, but in some incredulous manner Bing accomplished the feat. The water was not over three or four feet deep and, in some way best known to himself, he managed to reach his little master and to fasten his teeth in his bathing-suit. A second later he struggled to the surface and began painfully towing his heavy load towards the shore.
"My God, there he is!" cried the man,
​suddenly appearing from the bushes. "Bing has got him. Hold on, Bing, hold on tight!"
He rushed into the water and waded out to the struggling dog. It was but the work of a few seconds for the strong man to bring the boy ashore, and Bing followed eagerly in their wake.
The whole incident had taken only three or four minutes, but the little boy had taken so much water into his lungs that he was unconscious and he lay pale and, to all appearance, lifeless in his father's arms.
"Some one run to the pavilion," cried the man, "and telephone for the pulmotor at Meadowdale!"
An obliging bather hastened to do the errand and, a few seconds later, the telephone bell rang in the fire-station at Meadowdale.
​"All right," said the deputy. "We'll be over in no time."
Two men jumped into the chief's automobile, and one of them carried a suitcase. Then the doors of the engine-house opened automatically and the chief's car rolled out. Five seconds later, it was tearing down Main Street which, at that time of day, was nearly deserted. A policeman saw the red machine coming and waved for pedestrians and automobiles to give it the right of way, so, when the car flashed under the railroad track at the end of Main Street, it was going at the rate of forty miles an hour. Down the long street leading to the bridge the car increased its speed, and it struck the bridge at fifty miles an hour. Through the meadows the chief pressed the accelerator to the floor, and the speedometer mounted to fifty-five, sixty, and then ​sixty-five. Like a whirlwind, the car rushed onward until Broad Street was reached. Then it slowed down again to make the turn.
People in Meadowdale had never seen a car go down its principal street at such a rate of speed. Just six minutes after the telephone message had been delivered, two men sprang from the car at Sandy Beach and hastened to the relief of the little boy who still lay pale and limp on the sand.
It was an anxious group that gathered around him, but not even the frantic mother or the grief-stricken father looked more pathetic or sorrowful than did a little hound that hung on the outskirts of the group. His face was drawn and wrinkled with dumb dog anguish that he had no words to express.
For two minutes there was no sound ​except that of the rhythmic sucking of the pulmotor. Then the chief shook his head.
"I'm afraid there's water in his lungs," he said. "Take away the pulmotor."
Tenderly he turned the little fellow over on his stomach and, with one hand under his chest and the other on his back, tried to force out the water.
"Some one lift him up," he said, "and hold the body higher than the head. Here—do it this way."
Presently a small trickle of water was seen coming from his mouth.
"Good," said the chief.
When the water had ceased to flow, the pulmotor was again adjusted and its steady sucking began.
After about a minute the little boy was heard to gasp, once, twice, three times, and then he heaved a deep sigh.
"Good," cried the chief. "I guess he ​is coming around all right. Take away the pulmotor."
As soon as this was done, the little boy gasped several times and then began breathing, at first in short spasmodic breaths, but finally deep and naturally. Then, to the surprise of everybody, he opened his eyes and raised himself on one elbow.
"I want Bing," he said. "Where is Bing?"
At the sound of his name, the small dog squeezed through between the legs of his friends and joyfully licked his young master's face while the little boy stroked his head.
"If it hadn't been for Bing," he said, "the whale that swallowed Jonah would have got me, too."
"Don't let him do too much," said the chief. "He is still weak. You will have ​to be careful that he doesn't take cold. Wrap him up in a blanket and get him home as soon as possible. I can take him in my car."
"I don't want to go in the car," whimpered the little fellow. "I want to go in my wagon with Bing."
"But he will get you all wet," put in the small boy's mother.
"I can't get any wetter than I am," protested the little fellow stoutly. "Bing is the one that saved me, and I want him in my wagon."
"All right," said the boy's father, wiping off the dripping coat of the small dog as well as he could with his handkerchief.
Then the little boy was wrapped in his mother's sweater and, without a second invitation, Bing jumped in beside him and the triumphal procession started.
The news of the accident and Bing's ​heroic part in it spread like wild-fire, the children saw to that, and before the little party reached Sunshine Cottage, a dozen children were tagging after the small express wagon and all eyes were riveted on Bing and, from that day forth, the beagle hound was a hero among the children of Shadyville.
"Say," said Tommy Perkins to Billy Thompson that evening as he recounted the story. "I ain't a-gonna throw anything more at Bing. I ain't gonna steal any more of his pears, because I might fall in the river sometime myself and I would want him to pull me out."
All too soon the summer passed. Almost before any one realized it, the little boy and his parents were packing up to go home. All that eventful day, Bing followed his little master about like a shadow and stuck to him like a burr. In ​some strange way he seemed to understand that he was about to lose him.
Finally, when the taxi rolled away to the depot with his pal, he was the most sorrowful-looking member of the household that waved good-bye from the piazza of Sunshine Cottage.
In the evening after supper, Mr. Browning suddenly inquired: "Where is Bing? I haven't seen him for two hours."
"I don't know," replied Mrs. Browning. "He is probably somewhere about the place. Why don't you go out and see?"
So Mr. Browning went out and whistled and whistled, but got no response. Finally he heard the telltale thump of Bing's tail on the back piazza, so he went out to see where he was, and he found the small dog lying on the mat close up to the back door and, do what he would, he ​could not coax him away. This was the door of the tenement where the little fellow had lived during the summer, and Bing was on guard by his small master's door, waiting for he knew not what.
"You poor little chap," said Mr. Browning, patting the small dog affectionately on the head. "I know just how you feel. The little fellow has taken away a piece of my heart, also. You come down-stairs with me and we will listen to the radio."
So Mr. Browning picked up the small dog in his arms and carried him down to the living-room and turned on the radio. But it was hours before Bing could shake off the sorrow that seemed to engulf him, and for days he haunted the door on the back piazza where the little fellow had lived during the happy time when they had been such good pals.