The moving van had come to take away the last pieces of furniture of the Demier family. Carol and her mother were busy attending to its arrangement in the new home, an apartment consisting of two bedrooms and a living room on the fourth floor of an apartment building.
Patrick had remained behind, moving about like a shadow in the deserted house. Hurriedly leaving the empty rooms so full of memories, the boy rushed into the garden. The fountain kept on playing, insensible of human changes. The lawns were not mown; the paths were full of weeds. What had been the use of taking care of a garden when one was going to leave it forever? The old swing swayed gently in the breeze. A touch of red at the top of the apple tree arrested Patrick’s attention: a forgotten apple, one of those beautiful glossy ones of which Dad used to be so proud. To think that John Garnier and his brothers and sisters would be enjoying all this now! They would gather the flowers that Carol had planted; they would hide in her tree, the tall weeping willow, they would strip the old cherry tree of its fruit, so delicious that one could not stop eating once one had started; they were going to play, laugh and romp in this garden which till now had been his. No, never could he be reconciled to it. From this day his friendship with John Garnier was finished ... . Grasping a branch with both hands, Patrick shook it until the apple fell on the grass, picked it up and pocketed it.
Slowly he went back towards the house and sat down on the bottom step of the terrace close to the old pear tree whose leaves the autumn was turning red. Why must they leave this dear home for an apartment, cramped and cheerless, without garden, without soul? Where would he be able to play now? Where could he invite his chums? There was scarcely enough room for themselves in those skimpy rooms, encumbered with their large old-fashioned furniture. They had had to sell the ping pong table, the croquet set, and worst of all, to part with Ralph, the inseparable companion of his happiest hours.
He knew only too well the answer to all these questions - Carol had told him of Dad’s leaving them; that had been the source of all their sorrows. He recalled how Dad had left them soon after that. He had embraced Carol and himself hurriedly, promising to send them postcards and to bring them some day to join him if he liked the new country.
“We will not forsake Mommy,” Carol had replied coldly.
His face stern and set, their father had left them, without a backward look.
“This desertion was treason,” thought Patrick, his young heart full of bitterness. “Deserted by our own father! Who can we depend on now?”
A swift rush on the gravel path, a joyous bark, and Patrick found himself overwhelmed by a big wet tongue that licked his face and hands with ecstatic devotion.
“Ralph! Where did you spring from? Come, steady now! You must have escaped from the farm. Were you so longing to see us again?”
“Wuff, wuff!” was the eloquent response of the great sheep dog, jumping wildly about Patrick, mad with joy and excitement.
“What will your new master say, Ralph? Poor fellow, you will have to go back to him. What should we do with your great body in our tiny apartment? You will be happier in Mr. Berger’s big house.”
A doleful whine and a new assault of caresses succeeded in disarming Patrick. The boy stood up; it was getting cold, and lengthening shadows fell on the abandoned garden. Casting a last look on his earthly paradise, Patrick went out with Ralph at his heels. “You shall spend the night with us. Come on, then!”
Threading a maze of streets, Patrick soon found himself in front of an apartment building, dingy and yellowed with age. He opened a door, ran up several flights of stairs, and breathlessly entered his new home.
“Here is a visitor,” he cried, letting in the dog who, rushing around the half unpacked trunks, bounded upon Carol. Taken by surprise, she dropped the teapot she was holding, while the joyous barks of Ralph, all unconscious of the havoc he was causing, brought Mrs. Demier into the room.
“What are you thinking of, Patrick, to bring back this dog?” she cried in exasperation. “Instead of helping, you only make us more work. Go outside at once, you and your dog!”
“It was not I who brought him; he came back by himself,” said Patrick shamefacedly. Ill at ease in the confusion of the crowded room and the sense of disapproval, poor Ralph did not know where to put his feet, and shrank into a corner with a desolate whine.
Carol spoke gently to him: “You see, Ralph, you are no longer happy in our home,” she said, pushing her fingers into his thick hair.
“If you do not need me, I had better take him back tonight to Mr. Berger’s,” proposed Patrick; “he will understand now that he must not come here again.”
“Take that dog away at once,” said Mother, picking up the pieces of her best teapot. “Between Ralph and you we shall soon have nothing left whole! Besides, we shall not have time to eat before eight o’clock.”
Glad to escape from the upheaval and to enjoy a long outing with his dog, Patrick hurriedly departed. Mounting his bicycle, he quickly gained the suburbs of the town, Ralph bounding along by his side. To reach the little village of Fairfield the road led uphill, getting steeper all the time, until Patrick had to dismount and walk, his eyes fixed on the colorful woods bordering the road or green meadows where autumn mists were creeping. At the top of the hill he paused for breath and to look around. The busy town below him at the edge of the lake was already preparing for sleep with lights twinkling from many streets and dwellings. Patrick hastened his steps, coaxed Ralph along a footpath across fields, and, guided by a flickering lantern, made his way into the farmyard. The farmer’s eldest son, a tall young man with an open intelligent face, received the boy with a mischievous smile.
“I am not surprised!” he said; “I guessed that this rascal Ralph had gone back to you. But this is to his credit; he is faithful and intelligent, too. I felt so sorry when he kept whining and pulling on his chain; so I thought I would unfasten it for a moment. He was quicker than I and disappeared before I could seize him.”
Ralph growled and showed his teeth when he saw that he was to be made a prisoner again. By dint of much coaxing and reassuring words, Patrick got him to his kennel, beside which was the dish of food that he had not touched during his two days there.
“Goodbye, Ralph! Don’t run away again, old fellow. Promise me, and shake hands on it!” Whining gently, the dog put his great paw in Patrick’s hand; then he lay down with his head on his paws and fixed his eyes on the boy’s every movement.
“He won’t be unhappy long with us,” said the young farmer. “I think it is harder for you than for him. We’ll take good care of him, and he will soon get used to us. Come and see him whenever you wish.”
There was so much kindliness and quiet strength in Philip Berger’s manner that Patrick was almost tempted to say, “Keep me here with you, too!” But instead he answered, “Thank you. I’ll be glad to come, but not too soon, so that Ralph will have time to get used to you.”
Mounting his bicycle, Patrick spun down the hill towards home. Though it was only seven o’clock, darkness had fallen, and the boy suddenly felt the loneliness of this country road, lightened only by the feeble glow of the light on his bike and the starry sky. Rounding a sharp curve, he saw in the distance four figures coming towards him. A moment later, he thought it must have been imagination, for the figures had vanished: before him lay only the deserted road, bordered by trees and fields. Despite the lateness of the hour, Patrick could not resist the desire to know where the night prowlers could have disappeared. There was no path between the fields: had they hidden in the trees? He stopped and looked in all directions; straining his eyes, he distinguished among the dark shadows the vague shape of a hut or shed half hidden by trees at some distance from the road - the dwelling, no doubt, of the mysterious wayfarers.
“I will have to return in daylight to examine that shanty,” thought Patrick. “I cannot think who would want to live there!”
Pedaling with all his might to make up for lost time, he soon reached the welcome lights of the town. The long ride had calmed his troubled mind, and it was with less bitter feelings that he made his way to his new home.
“After all” he thought, “if I do have to live in this chicken house, I can still have the country, the woods, the fields, and the open road. I’ll go as often as possible to the Berger’s farm.”