University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

The next morning a great change might have been observed
in our friend Bogle. He appeared unusually quiet
and reserved—pallid and nervous;—starting when any one
approached him, he stood alone near the door of the Tehama;
he sought no companionship—he asked no questions. Men
marvelled thereat.

“What has come over Bogle?” said the Judge to the
Major. “I haven't heard him ask a question to-day.”

“Well,” was the unfeeling reply, “he's been asking questions
for the last thirty years, and I reckon he has asked all
there are.”

But Bogle knew what he was about. At three P.M.
precisely, General Brown came majestically down stairs; he
passed Bogle so nearly that he could have touched him; but
he noticed not the latter's shuddering withdrawal; he looked
neither to the right or left, but, gloomy and foreboding, like
an avenging genius, he passed into the apothecary's on the
corner.

“Give me an ounce bottle of strychnine,” said he.

“For rats, sir?” said the polite attendant.

The General started; he gave a fearful scowl. “Yes,”
he said, with a demoniac laugh, “for rats! ha! ha! oh yes—
for—rats!”

Bogle heard this;—he heard no more; he started for the
Police Office.

Who was Fanny?—??—????!—?—??—???

That evening about ten o'clock, Bogle sat alone, or alone
save his Artemesia, in No. 31. The baby had been put to
bed; and silent and solemn in that dark apartment, for the
lamp had been extinguished, sat listening that shuddering
pair. A step was heard on the stairs, and closer drew the
Bogles together, listening to that step, as it sounded fearfully
distinct, from the beating of their own agitated hearts.

As it drew near, it was evident that two persons were
approaching; for, accompanying the first distinct tread, was
a light footfall like that of a young and tender female.
“Poor thing!” said Artemesia, with a suppressed gasp. The
heavy tread of General Brown could be heard distinctly in
No. 32. The parties stopped at his door;—a knock, and
they were silently admitted.

The voice of the General broke the silence—“Oh!
Fanny,” he exclaimed in bitter anguish, how could you
desert me!” There was no articulate reply, but the Bogles
heard from the unhappy female an expression of grief, which
almost broke their hearts.

“Fanny,” continued the General, “you have been faithless
to me—fickle and false as your sex invariably are! I

loved you, Fanny—I love you still!—but my heart can no
more be made the sport of falsehood! You must die! Take
this!”

“Hold—wretch!” shouted Bogle. “Let me go, Artemesia;”
and throwing off his coat, the heroic little fellow
threw open his own door, kicked down the door of thirty-two,
and stood in the presence of the murderer and his
victim—pistol in hand! At the same instant the bell of
thirty-one was violently rung, the doors on each side opened,
and the gallery was filled with men. But what caused Bogle
to falter? Why did he not rush forward to snatch the victim
from her destroyer? Near the centre-table, on which
was burning an astral lamp, stood a remarkably fine looking
young man, who gazed on Bogle's short, punchy figure with
an inquiring smile.

On the other side of the table, but nearer the door, his
brow blacker than a thunder-cloud, sat General Brown;
in one hand he held a small piece of meat, the other
retained between his knees a small but exceedingly stanch-looking
dog, of the true bull-terrier breed. Both the General
and the dog showed their teeth;—both were epitomes
of ferocity, but the snarl of the dog was as nothing to the
snarl of the General, as, half-rising from his seat, but still
holding the dog down by the collar, he shouted—“How's
this, sir?”

Bogle staggered back—dashing back from his brow the
perspiration, he dropped the pistol and leaning against the
door, gasped rather than articulated—“It's a dog!”

“Yes, sir!” roared the infuriated General, rising from
his chair—“and a she dog at that! what have you got to
say about it?”

Bogle, almost fainting, stammered painfully forth, “Is
her—name—Fanny?”

“D—n you sir,” screamed the General, “I'll let you
know! Sta-boy! bite him, Fan!”

Like an arrow from a bow, like lightning from the cloud,
like shot off a shovel, like any thing that goes quick, sprang
the female bull-terrier on the unhappy Bogle.

“Man is but mortal,” and Bogle turned to flee. “It was
too late!” Why did he take off his coat?—ah! why wear
such tight pantaloons?

Shrieking like a demon, the ferocious beast clinging to
one extremity, his hair on end with fright, and horror at the
other, Bogle rushed frantically down the passage, overturning
in his mad career police officers, chambermaids, housekeeper
and boarders, who, alarmed at his outcries, thronged tumultuously
into the hall. The first flight of stairs he took at a
jump;—the second he rolled down from top to bottom, the
bull-terrier clinging to him like a steel trap—first the dog
on top, then Bogle;—arrived at the bottom, he sprang forth
into Sansome street, and reckless of Frink's alarmed cry—
“Stop that man—he hasn't paid his bill!” away he went on
the wings of the wind. It was an awful sight to see that little
figure, as, wild with horror, he ran adown the street, the
stanch dog swinging from side to side, as he fled.

It was a fearful race! Never did a short pair of legs get

over an equal space in an equal time, than on that trying occasion.
At length a sailor on Commercial street, taking the
dog for a portmanteau, with which he supposed Bogle was
making off, stretched out a friendly leg and tripped him up.
But his troubles were not ended. When a bull-terrier takes
a hold—a fair hold—to get it off, one of two alternatives
must obtain;—either the animal's teeth must be drawn, or
the piece must come out. They hadn't time to draw Fanny's
teeth—!

They brought Bogle home in a hand-cart, and put him
to bed. He hasn't sat down since. As they took him up
stairs to his room, surrounded by a clamorous throng, the
door of No. 10, at the foot of the first flight of stairs, opened,
and a gentleman of exceeding dignity, made his appearance
in a dressing gown of beautifully embroidered pattern.

“John,” he said to Mr. Duncan, who, with an extensive
grin on his countenance, and “Blood for Blood” (somewhat
dilapidated in the scuffle) in his hand, was bringing up the rear
of the procession with a candle, “what's all this row about?”

John briefly explained.

“I thought it a fire,” said the gentleman, “but, `Parturiunt
montes, nascetur—”'

“A ridiculous muss,” said the classic John Duncan.

The gentleman retired; so did the chambermaid; so did
the boarders generally; so did General Brown, with his dog
under his arm, swearing he would not part with her for five
hundred dollars; so did the policemen, somewhat scandalized
that nobody was murdered after all.

Bogle left the house next day in a baby-jumper, swung
to a pole between two Chinamen. Artemesia and the infant
followed.

I hear that he has lately increased his business, taken a
partner, and attends to the examination of wills, marriage
settlements, and other papers belonging entirely to other
people's business. Sneak is the name of the partner; he or
Bogle may be seen daily at the “Hall of Records,” from ten
until two o'clock, overhauling something or other, that is
no concern of theirs. They furnish all sorts of information
gratis. It is like the wine you get where they advertise “All
sorts of liquors at 12½ cents a glass.”

General Brown has settled in Grass Valley, Nevada
County, and would have appointed every white male inhabitant
of California a member of his staff with the rank of
Lieutenant-colonel, had he not been anticipated.

Fanny killed forty-four rats in thirty seconds, only last
week—so Tom says.

The Tehama House is still there.