Evening star. [volume], March 29, 1936, Page 3, Image 79

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
PLUTO/
Do you want a laugh? Read what
happened when a Newfoundland
puppy tried to play the role of Cupid -
by Frederic F. Van de Water
p—■—•he Clays’ chauffeur swung the car
1 uphill toward the low white house
1 among the hollyhocks. Melissa Clay
came out on the porch and raised
one hand in greeting. With the other, she held
the collar of a huge black dog. As Philip
Meredith alighted, she advanced in a long, dis
jointed slide and called something that was
lost in the tumult of her tractor.
The creature did not bark. He roared. Bass
trumpetings were garbled by a dispropor
tionate tongue that flopped across rows of
gleaming fangs. Eyes, rolling beneath an
impressively domed forehead, displayed a
. maniacal amount of white. Frantic paws dug
gravel from the walk and cast it backward.
“It's all right,” Melissa called through
the din. "He's just — ”
Behind Meredith, the car door slammed
with ghastly finality. A thick black muzzle
prodded his stomach. He and his assailant
gasped, but there was more relish in the dog’s
inhalation. The roaring had ceased. The
creature drew quivering breaths of delight
and beyond an extended vista of back, cov
ered with kinked, black hair, Meredith saw a
solemnly waving tail.
, “Goodness,” Melissa gasped, and flexed her
cramped left hand while she held out its
mate. “Phil, I’m glad to see you. Look out!”
The monster had reared and laid thick
’ forepaws on Meredith’s shoulders. Pinned
against the side of the car, the man uttered
mild sounds of demurral while a questing
tongue sought his face.
"Darling," Melissa cried, and pulled her
.charge back to earth, "behave yourself. Phil,
you'ye made a hit. He doesn’t always take
to strangers.”
“I see,” Meredith said feebly and brushed
himself. "It — it is a dog, isn’t it?"
The creature sat before him, plumed tail
beating the path into a pebbly batter, tongue
dangling over his chin, sorrowful eyes alight
with worship.
"He's a Newfoundland puppy,” Melissa
answered. "He’s still growing.”
“I’m glad,” he told her, “you didn’t invite
me any later. What’s his name?"
“His name,” she recited, "is Alastair As
tonishment of Willicombe, but we call him
Pluto. Do you like it?"
The wrinkle across her straight nose told
him that she did not. So he said:
“Not at all. You never named him that.”
"No,” Mrs. Clay said from the porch. “I
did. Walker, take Mr. Meredith’s bag to the
blue room. How do you do, Philip?"
He knew she would welcome him with still
less warmth, were he to tell her that he did
very well indeed, that the contract had been
signed and that the play was going into re
hearsal. News of his fortune might mark him
as a rival to her favorite among Melissa’s
suitors, the ass, Bob Wallace. He replied:
"Well, thank you, Mrs. Clay, and very glad
to be here," and hid his tidings against the
time when he might see Melissa alone.
The girl was fondling immense ears that
straddled Pluto’s rounded skull like deflated
fur saddlebags. Familiar wretchedness smote
the man while he watched her. She was too
lovely, too radiant a being ever to care for
so shabby and humble a person as he. Sight of
the Newfoundland, who panted up at that fair
face, comforted him a little. At least, he
equalled Pluto in grace and symmetry, and
Melissa loved the dog. She smiled. He felt his
heart try to kick its way through his ribs.
"Let’s go in,” Melissa said. “Will you have
your highball before or after you’ve changed?
We always have them ready for guests since
Pluto came. He bit Bob Wallace.”
The man patted that Beethoven brow and
quickened the thumping of the monstrous tail.
"He’s a swell dog,” he said.
After a time, he looked at himself in the
mirror of the blue room and was not reas
sured. The serge jacket fitted well; the flannel
trousers were sharply creased, yet the flair
with which Bob Wallace wore clothes was
missing. Meredith scowled at his reflection.
He had courage of a sort. He had wrestled
with Margolies over the contract until he
had quickened respect in the producer’s
canny eyes. But there were other producers.
There was only one Melissa. He turned from
the depressing spectacle in the mirror and
went downstairs.
Pluto lay, a respiring, black plateau at
the foot of the flight and Meredith paused,
not to admire the dimensions of the slumber
ing beast, but because progress was blocked.
He was ill versed in dog ways but he was sure
they resented being walked upon.
“Pluto," he wheedled. “Hey, Pluto. Good
dog.”
The great brute raised the head whose
nobility was marred by inanely rolling eyes,
thumped loudly with his tail and slept again.
Meredith leaped across the slumberer. The'
Co
floor beyond was slippery and he entered the
living room with the precipitance of a line
plunging back.
"Gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Clay. She sat
alone in the cool, calm chamber, where glasses
and bottles waited and regarded her guest
with disfavor. "You startled me,” she re
proved.
"Sorry,” he said. "Where’s everybody?”
Outside, Melissa called “Pluto!” Groans
and scufhngs sounded in the hall as the New
foundland hoisted himself and shuffled away.
“Melissa,” Mrs. Clay said precisely, “in
sists on feeding that brute herself. The others?
The Hunters can’t come till tomorrow and
Bob has telephoned that he won't arrive till
late this evening.”
“That’s — too bad,” he offered. His hos
tess looked at him with polite disapproval
“Bob Wallace,” she told him, “never lets
pleasure interfere with his work. They’re go
ing to make him junior partner in January.”
“Well,” said he, “that’s nice — if you like
the leather business.”
Mrs. Clay heard disparagement in that
final clause and struck back. To a fond
mother, hope and truth can be indistinguish
py right, ISM. United Newspapers Magazine Corporation
PLUTO THEN LUMBERED
OVER TO MEREDITH
AND SAT DOWN AT HIS
FEET. MELISSA IN
QUIRED: “WHAT ISTHIS
STRANGE POWER YOU
HAVE OVER DOGS AND
WOMEN?"
Illustrations by
Hairy L. Timmins