Speaker 1: The Black Dog by Stephen Crane. There was a ceaseless
rumble in the air as the heavy rain drops battered
upon the laurel thickets and the matted moss and haggard rocks.
Beneath four water soaked men made their difficult way through
the drenched forest. The little man stopped and shook an
angry finger at where Night was stealthily following them. Cursed
be Fate and her children and her children's children. We
are ever lastingly lost, he cried. The panting procession halted
under some dripping, drooping hemlocks, and swore with wrathful astonishment.
It will rain for forty days and forty nights, said
the pudgyman, moaningly. And I feel like a wet loaf
of bread. Now we shall never find our way out
of this wilderness until I am made into a porridge.
In desperation, they started again to drag their listless bodies
through the watery bushes. After a time, the clouds withdrew
from above them, and great winds came from concealment and
went sweeping and swirling among the trees. Night also came
very near and menaced the wanderers with darkness, the little
man had determination in his legs. He scrambled among the
thickets and made desperate attempts to find a path or road.
As he climbed a hillock, he espied a small clearing
upon which sat desolation and a venerable house, wept over
by wind waved pines. Ho. He cried, it's a house.
His companions staggered painfully after him as he fought the
thickets between him and the cabin. At their approached, the
wind frenzily opposed them and scurled madly in the trees.
The little man boldly confronted the weird glances from the
crannies of the cabin and rapped on the door. A
score of timbers answered with groans, and within something fell
on the floor with a clang. Ho, said the little man.
He stepped back a few paces. Somebody in a distant
part started and walked across the floor towards the door.
With an ominous step, a slate colored man appeared. He
was dressed in a ragged shirt and trousers, the latter
stuffed into his boots. Large tears were falling from his eyes.
How to do, my friends, said the little man, affably.
My old uncle Jim Crocker, he's sick to death, replied
the slate colored person. Ho, said the little man. Is
that so? The latter's clothing clung desperately to him, and
water sogged in his boots. He stood patiently on one
foot for a time. Can you put us up here
till tomorrow? He asked. Finally, yes, said the slate colored man.
The party passed into the little, unwashed room, inhabited by
a stove, a stairway, a few precarious chairs, and a
misshapen table. I'll fry your up some pork and make
you some coffee, said the slate colored man to his guests.
Go ahead, old boy, cried the little man cheerfully, from
where he sat on the table, smoking his pipe and
dangling his legs. My old uncle Jim Crocker, he's sick
to death, said the slate colored man. Think he'll die,
asked the pudgyman gently. No, he won't die. He's an
old man, but he won't die yet. The black dog
hadn't been around yet. The black dog, said the little
man feebly. He struggled with himself for a moment. What's
the black dog? He asked at last, He's a spirit,
said the slate colored man, in a voice of somber hue.
Oh he is, well. He haunts these parts, he does,
and when people are going to die, he comes and
sets and howls. Ho, said the little man. He looked
out of the window and saw a knight making a
million shadows. The little Man moved his legs nervously. I
don't believe in these things, he said, addressing the slate
colored man, who was scuffling with a sight of pork.
What things came incoherently from the combatant. Oh, these uh
phantoms and ghosts and what not? All I say, that's
because you have merely a stomach and no soul, grunted
the pudgyman. Ho old Pudgkins, replied the little man. His
back curved with passion. A tempest of wrath was in
the pudgy Man's eyes. The final epithet used by the
little Man was a carefully studied insult, always brought forth
at a crisis. They quarreled, All right, Pudgkins, bring on
your phantom, cried the little man. In conclusion. His stout
companion's wrath was too huge for words. The little man
smiled triumphantly. He had staked his opponent's reputation. The visitor
sat silent. The slate colored man moved about in a
small personal atmosphere of gloom. Suddenly, a strange cry came
to their ears from somewhere. It was a low, trembling call,
which made the little man quake privately in his shoe o.
The slate colored man bounded at the stairway and disappeared
with a flash of legs through a hole in the ceiling.
The party below heard two voices in conversation, one belonged
to the slate colored man and the other in quavering
tones of age. Directly, the slate colored man reappeared from
above and said the old man as took bad for
his supper. He hurriedly prepared a mixture of hot water,
salt and beef beef tea, it might be called. He
disappeared again once more. The party below heard vaguely talking
over their heads. The voice of age arose to a shriek.
Open the window, fool, Do you think I can live
in the smell of your soup? Mutterings by the slate
colored man and the creaking of the window were heard
The slate colored man stumbled down the stairs and said,
with his intense gloom, the black darg will be along soon.
The little man started, and the pudgyman sneered at him.
They ate a supper and then sat waiting. The pudgyman
listened so palpably that the little man wished to kill him.
The wood fire became excited and sputtered frantically without a
thousand spirits of the wind had become entangled in the
pine branches and were lowly pleading to be loosened. The
slate colored man tiptoed across the room and lit a
timid candle. The men sat waiting. The phantom dog lay
cuddled to a round bundle, asleep down the roadway against
the windward side of an old chanty. The specter's master
had moved to Pike County. But the dog lingered as
a friend might linger at the tomb of an old friend.
His fur was like a suit of old clothes. His
jowls hung and flopped, exposing his teeth. Yellow famine was
in his eyes. The wind rock shanty groaned and muttered,
but the dog slept. Suddenly, However, he got up and
scrambled to the roadway. He cast a long glance from
his hungry, despairing eyes in the direction of the Venerable House.
The breeze came full to his nostrils. He threw back
his head and gave a long, low howl, and started
intently up the road. Maybe he smelled a dead man.
The group around the fire in the Venerable House were
listening and waiting. The atmosphere of the room was tense,
and the slate colored man's face was twitching, and his
drab hands were gripped together. The little man was continually
looking behind his chair upon the countenance of the pudgy
man appeared conceit for an approaching triumph over The little
man mingled with apprehension for his own safety. Five pipes
glowed as rivals to the timid candle. Profound silence drooped
heavily over them. Finally, the slate colored man spoke, my
old uncle Jim Crocker, He's sick to death. The four
men started and then shrank back in their chairs. Damn it,
replied the little man vaguely. Again, there was a long silence.
Suddenly it was broken by a wild cry from the
room above. It was a shriek that struck upon them
with appalling swiftness, like a flash of lightning. The walls
whirled and the floor rumbled. It brought the men together
with a rush. They huddled in a heap and stared
at the white terror in each other's face. The slate
colored man grasped the candle and flared above his head
the black dog. He howled and plunged at the stairway.
The madden four men followed frantically, for it was better
to be in the presence of the offal than only within.
Hearing their ears still quivered with the shriek. They bound
through the hole in the ceiling and into the sick room,
with quilts drawn closely to his shrunken breast for a shield,
his bony hand gripping the cover. An old man lay
with glazed eyes fixed on the open window. His throat gurgled,
and a froth appeared at his mouth. From the outer
darkness came a strange, unnatural wail, burdened with a weight
of death, and every note filled with foreboding. It was
the song of the spectral dog God, screamed the little man.
He ran to the open window. He could see nothing
at first save the pine trees engaged in a furious combat,
tossing back and forth and struggling. The moon was peeping
cautiously over the rims of some black clouds. But the
chant of the phantom guided the little man's eyes, and
he at length perceived its shadowy form on the ground
under the window. He fell away, gasping at the sight.
The pudgyman crouched in the corner, chattering insanely. The slate
colored man, in his fear, crooked his legs and looked
like a hideous Chinese idol. The man upon the bed
was turned to stone, save the froth, which pulsated in
the final struggle. Terror will fight the inevitable. The little
man roared maniacal curses and rushed again to the window.
Began to throw very articles at the specter. A mug,
a plate, a knife, a fork. All crashed or clanged
on the ground, but the song of the specter continued.
The bowl of beef tea followed. As it struck the ground,
the phantom seized its cry. The men in the chamber
sank limply against the walls, with the unearthly wail still
ringing in their ears, and the fear unfaded from their eyes.
They waited again. The little man felt his nerves vibrate
destruction was better than another weight. He grasped the candle, and,
going to the window, held it over his head and
looked out. Ho he said. His companions crawled to the
window and peered out with him. He's eating the beef tea,
said the slate colored man faintly. The damn dog was hungry,
said the pudgy man. There's your phantom, said the little
man to the pudgyman. On the bed the old man
lay dead without the specter was wagging its tail. The
End of the Black Dog by Stephen Crane