Chapter 5

The Fight For Timothy

Mary's poor pretentious babe screamed continually, with a note of
exultation in his din, as if he thought he was devoting himself
to a life of pleasure, and often the last sound I heard as I got
me out of the street was his haw-haw-haw, delivered triumphantly
as if it were some entirely new thing, though he must have
learned it like a parrot. I had not one tear for the woman, but
Poor father, thought I; to know that every time your son is happy
you are betrayed. Phew, a nauseous draught.

I have the acquaintance of a deliciously pretty girl, who is
always sulky, and the thoughtless beseech her to be bright, not
witting wherein lies her heroism. She was born the merriest of
maids, but, being a student of her face, learned anon that
sulkiness best becomes it, and so she has struggled and
prevailed. A woman's history. Brave Margaret, when night falls
and thy hair is down, dost thou return, I wonder, to thy natural
state, or, dreading the shadow of indulgence, sleepest thou even
sulkily?

But will a male child do as much for his father? This remains to
be seen, and so, after waiting several months, I decided to buy
David a rocking-horse. My St. Bernard dog accompanied me, though
I have always been diffident of taking him to toy-shops, which
over-excite him. Hitherto the toys I had bought had always been
for him, and as we durst not admit this to the saleswoman we were
both horribly self-conscious when in the shop. A score of times
I have told him that he had much better not come, I have
announced fiercely that he is not to come. He then lets go of
his legs, which is how a St. Bernard sits down, making the noise
of a sack of coals suddenly deposited, and, laying his head
between his front paws, stares at me through the red haws that
make his eyes so mournful. He will do this for an hour without
blinking, for he knows that in time it will unman me. My dog
knows very little, but what little he does know he knows
extraordinarily well. One can get out of my chambers by a back
way, and I sometimes steal softly--but I can't help looking back,
and there he is, and there are those haws asking sorrowfully, "Is
this worthy of you?"

"Curse you," I say, "get your hat," or words to that effect.

He has even been to the club, where he waddles up the stairs so
exactly like some respected member that he makes everybody most
uncomfortable. I forget how I became possessor of him. I think
I cut him out of an old number of Punch. He costs me as much as
an eight-roomed cottage in the country.

He was a full-grown dog when I first, most foolishly, introduced
him to toys. I had bought a toy in the street for my own
amusement. It