Ginger Pye (12 page)

Fifteen minutes later Ginger ran jauntily out from the Gaines' backyard where the old gray cat was now up a huge red mulberry tree. One of Ginger's ears was torn and bleeding, true. And he had clawings on the white fur of his back. But he didn't care, for it had been a glorious bout.

Happy though Ginger felt, all tingling and exhilarated, nevertheless there was something bothering him deep inside himself that kept him from feeling the complete contentment a fight with a cat usually inspired in him. He could not immediately put his paw on this certain something. It was like a bone he knew he had somewhere that he couldn't recall the exact location of.

He lay panting on the soft green grass in his own front yard again. Mrs. Pye came out and said, "Oh, there you are, Ginger. Good dog," and she went back in again.

Ginger wagged his tail self-righteously. He licked his paw and applied it to his wounded ear. He should improve his technique with the Gaines' cat for he had received too many digs. Ginger felt vaguely dissatisfied with himself, and melancholy. He knew his hurting ear, alone, was not the cause of this feeling, for Jerry could fix that. Jerry would put something cool and soothing on it. Jerry ... Jerry ... Oh, Jerry! That was what it was! There Ginger had been—on the trail of Jerry, to find out where he went always. And then this! This fight with a cat! He had fallen into temptation after all. What a reflection upon his character!

In his shame Ginger stuck his tail down tight. He felt like a traitor, a deserter. But there was still
time. He could still go and find Jerry. He had started out to do one thing and he had ended by doing another. All right. It would not happen again because he was Ginger, the purposeful dog. His tail perked up and he pasted his nose to the ground again.

This time, as Ginger steered his nose past the Carruthers' and the Gaines' tempting houses, all he permitted himself was a slight reminiscent wag of the tail. That was all. Not even a peek from the corners of his eyes. And from his mind he banished thoughts of all the eyes of all the hidden cats that probably were on him. Scrunching up his nose, pushing it on up the street, he lost himself completely in following the trail of Jerry Pye.

At a certain point, going through a small field, the scent led Ginger to a little crabapple tree. He stood on his hind legs and inhaled the scent as far up the tree as he could thrust his nose. Jerry had been up this tree but he certainly was no longer there for, of course, there would be a much keener scent if he were. The quest was by no means over.

Ginger remained poised there against the tree in contemplation. Jerry's going up the tree might be what was known as a decoy. Decoys were difficult, though not impossible, to outwit. For instance, the
person a dog was trailing might leap from treetop to treetop. A dog had to work doubly hard and might have to explore in every direction before finding the trail again. But then, that is all part of tracking.

Ginger wagged his tail in appreciation of his master's cleverness and he keenly anticipated matching his wits against his. No doubt, Jerry had suspected that Ginger would try to trail him. So, up the tree he had gone to throw Ginger off his tracks.

Thus Ginger analyzed the difficult situation before leaping down. He then began spiritedly to go round and round the tree in ever-widening circles. By the time he was ten dog-lengths away from the tree his nose picked up the scent again. And the decoy was over.

Apparently Jerry had swung out of the tree on a limber branch and had landed way over here on all fours. Here, also, was one of Jerry's pencils with Ginger's tooth marks on it as well as Jerry's own. Jerry had then proceeded in the same direction as before the tree decoy, and this Ginger did likewise, with the pencil in his mouth.

The pencil made trailing considerably more difficult than hitherto, if not well-nigh impossible. In the end, Ginger had to drop the pencil, find the trail, go back for the pencil, and bring it to the
farthest point of trailing. Of course he could not abandon the pencil. The going, therefore, was slower now, not only because of the complication of the pencil, but also because suddenly there seemed to be a very great many more smells to weed out before locating Jerry's.

Ginger snorted and blew and carefully cherished the faint but certain scent that was Jerry's. So close to the ground did he keep his nose, he bumped right into the cement stoop of a candy store. He raised his head, sniffing expertly and gently. He allowed the enticing chocolate and peanut smells to mingle with Jerry's.

Was it possible that here was the end of the trail, the end of the long quest? Did Jerry spend all those hours away from him in a candy store? How marvelous, if true. He wagged his tail expectantly. His mouth drooled, for he loved candy, and he trotted into the candy store.

Jerry was not there, Ginger soon found out as he sniffed busily around the floor, eating bits of sweet that had been dropped and giving an excited bark when he found a piece of sticky paper Jerry had thrown down. It had had licorice in it—not one of Ginger's favorites; one of Jerry's though.

Ginger chewed all the sweetness out of the paper
and reluctantly let that go. After all, he had still to push his nose and Jerry's pencil up the street and that was just about all he could manage. The trail was certainly hot now, what with having found Jerry's pencil and then this piece of sticky paper. Yes, this was what was known as being "hot on the trail."

Sniff, sniff here. Snort and blow there. A great, great many feet had passed this way and Ginger lost the trail. He just followed the lead of all those feet and at last he paused to take his bearings. He looked about him. He had come through the wide open gate of a tall brown wooden fence and here he was, in an enormous yard, half pavement and half worn-down grass. He lay down on a little patch of this grass close to a big brick building. His nose stung and his neck ached from the long push and hard concentration. The pencil lay safely between his paws. He licked his tongue over his dry nose until it became moist and cool again, and he studied the building before him.

The building was big, hard, and brick. If this was where Jerry came every day and spent his time, Ginger was no longer envious. Why come here, though? Why come here when he and Jerry could tramp up Shingle Hill or tear through the woods around the reservoir picking up acorns and finding frogs? Still, inside might be pleasanter than outside, and Ginger toured the building to find a way in.

All doors were closed. All Ginger could do now was to sit and wait for Jerry to come out. Imagine Jerry' s pleasure when he saw his faithful dog waiting here for him, choosing to wait here for him instead of chasing cats, moreover.

Ginger lazily crossed his front paws the way he always did while resting. He felt drowsy. Now and then he twitched his back to get rid of a fly circling around in the warm October sunshine. He listened to the sounds coming from the big building. There was a sound as of many bees droning. A sharp voice gave a command and this droning stopped. The sharp voice gave another command and there was a burst of singing. "Hats off, hats off, the flag is passing by." This was pleasant and Ginger was sorry when it stopped. After the singing there was quiet for a time, with only an occasional sharp command from the one in charge of all these goings-on.

The long quest, the warm sunshine, the quiet, all contributed to Ginger's sleepiness. With one vigilant eye half open, he began to nod.

Then—was he dreaming? He heard Jerry's voice. Jerry's voice loud and clear and all by itself. Ginger sat up. His tail began uncertainly to wag. Then it
wagged uncontrollably, for he was not dreaming. Jerry's voice was coming loud and clear from one of the high windows. Jerry was not using his regular voice that he used with Ginger or with any of the Pyes. He was using a high and loud and clear voice. But it was Jerry's voice, even so.

Ginger listened, in a transport of delight. Then he gave a short bark announcing, if Jerry cared to know, that he, Ginger, was right out here. Not only was he out here, he would manage to get to Jerry somehow, so there would be no more separation.

Ginger no longer felt tired. He tore around the building barking and wagging not only his tail, wagging his whole body. He was looking again for a way in. All entrances were closed. He came back and longingly stared up at the window from which he judged Jerry's voice was coming. Jerry was still talking, though the one in command kept butting in.

There was a perilous-looking iron stairway leading up to the open window through which Jerry's voice was floating. Standing beneath this curious stairway Ginger could see sky through the open work of the steps. Cautiously Ginger put one paw on the bottom step. It was hard to get a grip on but at least it did not wobble. He put his other front paw on the bottom step and carefully pulled his body up onto it.

The main difficulty was that his paws kept sliding through the iron bars. What peculiar stairs. No carpets at all, as at home. Even so, by being extremely cautious, he might be able to drag himself to the next story, pencil and all.

Carefully, step by step, Ginger crawled up the extraordinary stairs. This was not a decoy. This was a dangerous undertaking. He did not dare look down between those iron bars. He had looked down once and nearly dropped Jerry's pencil out of terror. Up, up, up he crept until there at last he was—at the open window. Gasping in relief Ginger climbed onto the windowsill and stood there, drooling, pencil in mouth, tail wagging in delighted expectation.

This room happened to be filled with boys and girls all seated at little desks. They looked sleepy and the place did not seem anywhere near as enticing as up at the reservoir. But anyway, there was Jerry, standing by his seat, his voice coming out clear and high and loud again.

The teacher issued a command. "Read it again, Jerry, more distinctly, and pay more attention to your final g's."

"My dog, Ginger," read Jerry Pye, and he cleared his throat.

Well. When Ginger heard Jerry say his name he let out one short yelp of greeting. Ginger! "Yes, here I am, right here, Jerry," was what his bark meant. Of course he dropped Jerry's pencil but fortunately it dropped on the windowsill and not down below. Ginger quickly picked it up again and held it triumphantly in his mouth.

The minute Ginger let out that little yelp of greeting, what a hullabaloo came over the place. Some little girls screamed and some laughed. All the boys cheered. The person in command clapped her hands but no one paid any attention to her. Jerry dropped the paper he was holding and for a moment he stared at Ginger, too stunned for words or action. Then he rushed to the window and patted his dog to make him feel at home.

Ginger jumped into the room, dropped Jerry's pencil at his feet and looked up at Jerry. He was inviting him to throw it so he could run after it and bring it back, the way they played the rock game at home, or ball, or stick.

Jerry picked up his pencil. "He even found my pencil I lost on the way to school this morning," he said in greater astonishment than ever. "What a smart dog!"

"Your dog?" asked Oliver Peacock, a boy with glasses, in admiration.

"Yeh," said Jerry proudly. "My dog. Trailed me here."

"The dog brought a pencil with him because it's school," shrilled one little girl.

"Whew!" whistled Oliver Peacock.

Ginger wagged his tail and looked as though he were laughing, the way he always did when he understood that pleasant things were being spoken of him. He licked Jerry's hand. So. Here he was! It was not much of a place but if Jerry could put up
with it, so could he. He trotted around the room, his toenails making a pitter-patter. He smelled here and sniffed there. In one corner by a cupboard he kept his nose glued for some time. There was the possibility of mice there.

He detoured around the tall person who was still clapping and giving orders that no one was minding any more than he minded anyone when he was off after a cat.

Suddenly the tall one took a long stick and she brought this down on her desk with such a bang it broke in two and went sailing through the air.

"Quiet!" she bellowed.

The hullabaloo stopped short then. This was a welcome relief to Ginger who did not see how Jerry stood this sort of a noisy life. His ears hurt him.

"Jared Pye!" the tall one said. "Either take your dog home or make him lie down under your desk until dismissal time which is, thank merciful heavens, only a few minutes away. And, Jared," she added. "See that this disgraceful performance is not repeated or I shall have to report you to Mr. Pennypepper. Even so, you shall stand in the corner all this afternoon," she promised.

"Always the same old punishments," groaned Dick Badger wearily to Jerry.

"Come here, Ginger," said Jerry. As though he
could help it, he thought, if the dog he owned happened to be so smart he could trail him all the way to school. You would think the teacher could see that, wouldn't you? he asked himself. "Come here, pup," he urged.

Ginger recognized the pleading note in Jerry's voice and he pattered over to him, for he wanted nothing to do with the tall one and her sticks and shrill voice.