The Saturdays by Elizabeth Enright Page B

never even paused. It turned left into a side street with Rush hot on its heels, and when it ran down some steps into the snow-filled areaway of a vacant house Rush cornered it.
    â€œHere, boy,” he said wheedlingly. “Come on out. Come on, pup. I wouldn’t hurt you.”
    He approached it with his hand outstretched for encouragement and to his delight the wet and shivering dog suddenly raised a front paw and placed it in the hand. Rush’s heart was won forevermore.
    â€œYou’re a smart guy!’ he told the dog admiringly. “You come on home with me and I’ll give you some supper. Come on, puppy, come on.”
    The dog, which had been trembling against the iron grating, made up its mind about Rush. Its tail wagged tentatively once, twice, and it gave a short conversational bark. It was a smallish dog with long ears and large melting eyes; not quite a thoroughbred face, but much better: one that was full of character. It was hard to tell what color he was, for he was so dirty and wet; his longish fur clung together in damp strings and he had no collar. Rush had never seen a dog he liked better.
    â€œCome on, boy,” he coaxed. Then he picked up the shivering stray, and held it close. All its ribs were sharp beneath his hands.
    â€œEverything’s going to be all right now,” he kept saying. “I’ll hide you in the cellar till Cuffy gets used to the idea; Willy Sloper’s going to like you, and you’ll be warm down there and I’ll find you a bone too.”
    The boy and the dog were equally wet and dirty by this time. The snow still fell swiftly and Rush’s shoes were so wet that they squelched louder than ever. The dog shivered in short, hard spasms and gave Rush’s ear a lick with his warm tongue. It was a long walk home and the dog grew heavier with every block. At the house Rush hesitated. He didn’t want to go in by the front door, partly for fear of muddying the carpet, but mainly for fear of meeting Cuffy or Father before he had prepared them for the dog. A glance through the kitchen window revealed Cuffy charging busily about with pot lids clashing like cymbals. The kitchen door was closed, he was glad to see. The areaway iron gate was also closed and locked, but Rush knew how he could open it; his hand was still small enough to push through the narrow apertures of the grille and turn the knob from the inside. The house door beyond was unlocked, fortunately, and presently he was tiptoeing slushily along the lower hallway toward the cellar stairs. He had a bad moment when Cuffy threw open the kitchen door and released a smell of boiled turnip and a snatch of song. “Sweet and low, sweet and low, ” sang Cuffy at the top of her healthy lungs. “Wind of the western sea-ea.”
    But she didn’t come out, and quick as a thief in the night, Rush had opened the furnace-room door, pulled it to behind him, and snapped on the lights. He went tiptoe down the iron cellar steps into the great warm subterranean room where the furnace crouched glaring amid its coiled tentacles of pipe like the minotaur in the labyrinth. Rush remembered the old man with earmuffs and what he had said about the world of machines. Boy, I’d hate to be left alone with this one when it came alive, he thought; it looks like it could be mean.
    At the far side of the furnace room were the washtubs. Into one of these he put the dog. Then he took off his cap and coat and jacket, letting them fall in a drippy heap on the floor.
    â€œI hate to do this to you, pal,” he told the dog, “but I want you to look handsome when Cuffy sees you. Everything depends on it. She’d never let you stay if she saw you like this.” Then he rolled up his sleeves, turned on the water, reached for the brown soap and began to scrub. The dog stood without a sound, trembling wildly, and gazing with horrified eyes at Rush as if to say “This is the most awful thing