# Bing/Chapter 3

Bing trotted rapidly down the street for perhaps a hundred yards, occasionally looking back over his shoulder to see if he were being followed. But his absence from the Browning home had not yet been discovered, so, of course, no one followed him.
Presently he came to a cross street and ​there were three possibilities before him. Then the thought occurred to him that he did not know the way back to the kennels and kind Mr. Manson. So he stopped and sat down upon his tail to think, or rather to wonder, for his thinking was not very definite.
Should he continue along the way he was going, or turn to the left or right? Finally he decided to go ahead, but after a little he concluded this was not the way, so he came back to the intersection of the streets and went to the right. This street also did not satisfy him, so he again retraced his steps and took the left. By this time he could not even have found his way back to the Brownings.
A few rods down the street to the left, he discovered a large yellow cat sunning himself on the piazza. He looked for all the world like the Professor, so Bing de​cided to interview him. He would surely know the way home to the kennels.
As the strange puppy started to mount the piazza steps, the big yellow cat arched his back and began spitting. The sounds did not seem to be exactly friendly, but Bing's need was very great, so he continued to climb.
Now Bing was wagging his tail vehemently and grinning his most persuasive dog grin, but the big cat either did not notice these friendly overtures or else he was a cat grouch and did not wish to be friendly, for, when Bing's paw touched the top step, something happened which he had not even dreamed of, for, with a nasty yowl and spit, the great cat sprang across the piazza and landed fairly upon Bing's back. He came with such fury that he bowled the unsuspecting puppy over and sent him sprawling to the bottom ​of the steps. This probably saved him a bad scratching, for before the belligerent cat could gather himself together for another spring, the terrified pup had fled down the pathway yelping in fright. He had learned his first lesson in the great wide world, namely, that things and people are not always just what they seem to be, and that it is well to be slow in making friendships,—a philosophy that applies equally well to men and dogs.
After that, Bing did not seek to ask the way to the homes of either cats, dogs, or men, but wandered miserably about looking this way and that, hoping that something would turn up.
Now the boys should have noticed that this was a lost pup and have taken him to their hearts, and tried to help him, but this did not even occur to them. They just saw in the forlorn little dog an object for fun, or rather something that they, in their thoughtlessness, called fun, but it should never be fun to a right-minded boy to torment any of the dumb creatures.
So one boy scooped up a handful of snow and cried to his fellows: "I bet I'll be the first one to hit him."
Bing divined at once that he was the object of their mirth, yet he never dreamed that their intent was anything but kindly. Perhaps these boys were going to help him find the way to the kennel. So he advanced, wagging his tail.
Zip, went a snowball so close to him that ​it kicked up a cloud of snow crystals. The boy who had thrown the snow missile laughed with delight.
Zip, zip, went two other snowballs, and then another from the first boy hit poor frightened little Bing a glancing blow. He did not wait to see more. The intent of these boys was certainly unfriendly, so he ran with all his might away from the flying missiles.
He did not stop running until he had left the thoughtless boys far behind, but, even so, they chased him for a score of rods, throwing snowballs as they ran.
Bing had learned another lesson, which was not to trust strangers implicitly until you have found them out. All was not gold that glittered in this strange and fearful world into which he had fled so confidently. Perhaps the great wide world was not a good place at all. He had ​better try to find his way back to Sunshine Cottage and the Brownings; they had really been very good to him. This was his conclusion as he now saw them through the vista of his sorry adventures of the past hour. It was a case of distance lending enchantment. But he had become so bewildered in fleeing from the hateful boys that he had lost all sense of direction and didn't even know the way back to Sunshine Cottage, although it was barely a quarter of a mile away and really almost within sight, if he had looked in the right direction. So Bing decided to make the acquaintance of a big bulldog that was gnawing a bone on a piazza near by. Perhaps he would help him.
His experience with dogs had always been pleasant. All the dogs at the kennels had been friendly; surely this one would be, also. Bing advanced wagging ​his tail, but, to his great astonishment, the bulldog arose and stood over his bone and growled most viciously when the lost pup came close to him. Bing was so frightened that he fled, not even taking time to explain in dog language that he did not want the bone, but was just inquiring his way home to his folks. He had learned another lesson,—the lesson of proprietorship in one's home, which is very strong in dogs and one of their most zealously guarded rights. No dog should ever trespass upon another dog's piazza, or even look at his bone, unless he is invited. Yes, Bing would remember that. Why, the growl of that bulldog even made him cold, and he shivered and whimpered miserably!
Several other houses he reconnoitered cautiously, but they were all either guarded by dogs, or else children saw him and drove him away. Finally, he became ​convinced that all the world hated him, or at least all the world but the Brownings, and that he was an outcast. What would he not give to see those good people again!
At the thought of the pleasant quarters at Sunshine Cottage, a great wave of loneliness and despair seized Bing, and he sat down upon his tail and lifted up his nose and howled dolefully.
Then Bing remembered that he was very hungry. The excitement of the past hour and its loneliness had made his appetite like that of a wolf, so he set about to find himself some food.
He inspected several outbuildings and farmyards and, after a long search, discovered a small animal which had been freshly skinned and thrown upon a compost heap. He fell upon it savagely. At ​first he thought it rather good meat, he was so hungry. But finally he bit into a portion of the carcass that fairly nauseated him, and Bing left the odorous meat in great haste. The truth was, Bing had been eating a freshly skinned skunk and had bitten into the carcass near to the scent-bag. No wonder it was strong meat. How his fortunes had fallen!
At Sunshine Cottage at this very minute, on a plate behind the kitchen range, were plenty of dog biscuits warranted to contain just the right ingredients for a growing pup, both bone and muscle. Also, there were dog cubes which would keep any dog in the pink of condition and a generous saucer of milk, not to mention the company of the Professor. The thoughts of that old cat and his lost plate of dog goodies made Bing again sit upon his tail and wail dismally.
​And what a commotion he had created at Sunshine Cottage, for Mr. Browning sat at his desk telephoning frantically in every direction for "a little dog with his tail tucked in." Had any one seen a little lost beagle hound? He was black and white, with tan ears and tan markings around the eyes. His name was Bing, and if any one saw him, would he return him to Sunshine Cottage where a reward was waiting? The Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts were finally pressed into service in the search for the little lost pup. Meanwhile, Mrs. Browning ran hither and thither to all the neighbors, asking the same question: "Has any one seen a little lost pup?"
When Mr. Browning finally telephoned to Mr. Manson at the kennels, that kind dog-man tried to reassure Bing's new owner.
​"I guess he will be all right," he said. "You see, Mr. Browning, a dog hasn't lost all of his wild-animal instincts. They can take care of themselves a great deal better than we humans can under hard conditions. I guess he will dig in somewhere. I shouldn't worry, if I were you."
But hours passed with no word from Bing. Some people thought they had seen him, or a puppy just like him, but they were not sure. Several thought their children had seen him. They would keep a sharp lookout and, if anything was seen of him, they would report.
Thus hour after hour went by and the anxiety at Sunshine Cottage grew steadily, and, in the meantime, the fear that had held Mr. Manson when he had heard the news of the lost dog came to pass, for a blinding, swirling snowstorm set in, with every prospect of a deep snowfall.
​The snow came down in pelting, swirling gusts, and the cold grew steadily. A blizzard was upon them, such as had not been seen in many a winter, and a little lost pup, only three months old, was out in the storm, pitting his small strength and his slight wits against the mighty force of the snow and the cold.
It was terrible. Mr. Browning paced up and down the rooms or listened at the window to the howling of the wind.
"I am afraid we shall never see him again," he said. "He never can stand this storm. If he is out in this terrible blizzard, he will surely perish."
"I shouldn't worry," returned his wife. "Some one will take him in. As Mr. Manson says, he will dig in somewhere."
But he did not. That is, he did not dig into any human shelter. For, after trying house after house and being driven away ​by either dogs or children or strange noises, little Bing took to the woods. He sought shelter in a desolate swamp about a quarter of a mile from the nearest farmhouse and a mile from the village. Here he dug a hole under the top of a fallen hemlock. He dug deep, as far down as he could, and the white snow soon covered him. There, all through the night, at the heart of the desolate swamp, poor little Bing shivered and cowered, trying to sleep and to keep from freezing, while his master and mistress worried themselves nearly sick and sent up silent prayers to Heaven for a little lost pup.
For the next ten days, Old Winter put on such a program of blinding snowstorms, howling wind, and biting cold as even the oldest resident could not recall. People who did not have very urgent business out of doors stayed close to the fire, ​and those who did venture outside put on their warmest furs.
And all this time Mr. Browning kept up his search for the missing pup. He telephoned to every friend in the village and surrounding hamlets. He advertised in the local paper, while the Boy Scouts, the Girl Scouts, and the local police scoured the country for miles around, but not a sign of Bing could they find.
Meanwhile, the object of all this anxiety was having an even harder time. For the better part of each day and all through the night, he skulked in the swamp. Each day at dusk he came forth and went to the compost heap for his ration of frozen skunk. It was lucky for him that the boy whose dump he was pillaging was a good trapper. For, as soon as the first skunk had been eaten, another appeared, and that was soon followed by a dead muskrat. ​This meat was not so strong, but "wow," wasn't it tough! As Bing munched away upon it, he must have longed with a pitiful longing for his plate of dog biscuit and cubes, or the saucer of warm milk.
He had one desperate adventure in the dark swamp which nearly ended fatally. It was merely by a stroke of good luck that he escaped. It happened that a big red fox also made his home in the swamp, and one day when he was prowling about, he discovered the fresh tracks of the small dog. Somehow it angered the old fox to know that a puppy was snooping about in his swamp, so he followed the tracks, determined to make an end of the small dog, should he discover him alone.
Finally, he spied him wandering disconsolately about and gave chase. Now Bing had a very keen nose, and this warned him of his danger before it was too ​late. He did not know just what the danger was, but, without waiting to see, he fled in and out among the clumps of laurel, the old fox gaining on him at every jump. Out and in they raced, and Bing's pursuer had almost reached him when this headlong flight was checked by the sudden appearance of a large foxhound that was also prowling about in the swamp.
Bing ran almost between the hound's legs before he noticed him, and the fox was following him so closely that he barely escaped the open jaws of the foxhound. In a flash the entire scene changed. From being the pursuer, the fox became the pursued; and it was a desperate race. Again and again the hound reached for him, and he barely escaped, but finally the fox evaded his pursuer and Bing heard the deep baying of the hound die away in the distance.
​It was on the tenth day of his hiding in the swamp that a young farmer who happened to go to the woods discovered him. Even then, he was not at first sure that the small animal that scurried away so rapidly was a dog. But he was one of those to whom Mr. Browning had telephoned. So he began whistling and calling, but it was at least fifteen minutes before he could coax the terrified little dog into the open. And this was only a beginning, for it took another half-hour to coax him up where he could get a hand on him. Finally, cringing and crawling on his belly, poor Bing crept to the man's feet, and he stooped down and picked him up.
What a forlorn little chap he was! His hair was rough and unkempt, his ears and lips were frostbitten, and he was so emaciated and weak that he could hardly stand.
​The young man hurried to the house with him and soon he was lapping frantically at a pan of warm milk. He would gulp it down until he choked, and then would run about the room choking and whimpering. Soon they discovered that the heat from the stove made the frostbitten ears ache and smart.
"I guess we had better get him home as soon as possible. I will hitch up the horse at once," said the young man.
Mr. Browning was getting a few last winks of his morning sleep when Mrs. Browning burst into his room.
"Lawrence, wake up!" she cried. "You can never guess who is here."
But Mr. Browning did not need to guess, for the newcomer was already on the bed licking the man's face frantically and trying in every way to express his boundless dog love.
​"It's Bing," cried Mrs. Browning excitedly, "and he is back. He is very weak, and his soft little ears are frostbitten. If he goes near the stove, it makes him whimper. But I guess he is all right, aside from that. We can patch him up all right, and he is mighty glad to get home."
"I see he is," returned Mr. Browning stroking the small dog gently. "We've been anxious about you, little pup."
Bing began all over again, kissing his master's face and wagging his tail to tell him how glad he was to be home.
He had learned his lesson well, although it had been at a terrible cost. He knew now what home meant. Yes, it was "Home, Sweet Home," the only place on earth for Bing from that time forth. This was his haven, and he was anchored here for the rest of his life.