The 101 Dalmatians

Miracle Needed

“Last lap before supper,” said Pongo as they started off again across the moonlit fields.

It was the most cheering thing he could have said, for the ninety-seven puppies were now extremely hungry. He had guessed this because he was hungry himself. And so was Missis. But she was feeling too peaceful to mind.

They went on for nearly two miles; then Pongo saw a long row of cottage roofs ahead across the fields.

“This should be it,” he said.

“What is that glow in the sky beyond the roof-tops?” asked Missis. Pongo was puzzled. He had seen such a glow in the sky over towns which had many lights, but never over a village. And this was a very bright glow. “Perhaps it’s a larger place than we expected it to be,” he said, and did not feel it would be safe to go any nearer until some dog came to meet them. He called a halt and barked news of their arrival.

He was answered at once, by a bark that said, “Wait where you are. I am coming.” And though he did not tell Missis, Pongo felt there was something odd about this bark that answered his. For one thing, there were no cheerful words of welcome.

Soon a graceful red Setter came dashing towards them. They guessed, even before she spoke, that something was very wrong.

“The bakery’s on fire!” she gasped.

The blaze, due to a faulty chimney, had begun only a few minutes before—the fire engine had not yet arrived. No one had been hurt, but the bakehouse was full of flames and smoke—all the food spread out for the Dalmatians was burned.

“There’s nothing for you to eat and nowhere for you to sleep,” moaned the poor Setter—she was hysterical. “And the village street’s full of people.” She looked pitifully at Missis. “All your poor hungry puppies!”

The strange thing was that Missis felt quite calm. She tried to comfort the Setter, saying they would go to some barn.

“But no arrangements are made,” wailed the Setter. “And there’s no spare food anywhere. All the village dogs brought what they could to the bakery.”

Just then came a shrill whistle.

“My pet is calling me,” said the Setter. “He’s the doctor here. There’s no dog at the bakery, so I was chosen to arrange everything—because I took first prize in a dog show. And now I’ve failed you.”

“You have not failed,” said Missis. “No one could say the fire was act of dog. Go back to your pet and don’t worry. We shall simply go on to the next village.”

“Really?” said the Setter, gasping again—but with relief.

Missis kissed her on the nose. “Off with you, my dear, and don’t give the matter another thought. And thank you for all you did.”

The whistle came again, and the Setter ran off, wildly waving her feathered tail. “Feather-brained as well as feather-tailed,” said Pongo.

“Just very young,” said Missis gently. “I doubt if she’s had a family yet. Well, on to the next village.”

“Thank you for being so brave, dear Missis,” said Pongo. “But where is the next village?”

“In the country there are villages in every direction,” said Missis brightly.

Desperately worried though he was, Pongo smiled lovingly at her. Then he said, “We will go to the road now.”

“But what about traffic, Pongo?”

“We shall not be very long on the road,” said Pongo. Then he told her what he had decided. Even if the next village should only be a few miles away, many of the pups were too tired and too hungry to get there—some of them were already asleep on the frozen ground. And every minute it got colder.

“And even if we could get to the next village, where should we sleep, Missis, what should we eat, with no plans made ahead? We must give in, my dear. Come, wake the pups! Quick march, everyone!”

The waking pups whimpered and shivered, and Missis saw that even the strongest pups were now wretchedly cold. So she helped Pongo to make them all march briskly.

Then she whispered, “But how do we give in, Pongo?”

Pongo said, “We must go into the village and find the police station.”

Missis stared at him in horror. “No, Pongo, no! The police will take the puppies from us!”

“But they will feed them, Missis. And perhaps we shall be kept together until Mr. Dearly has been told about us. They will have read the papers. They will know we are the Missing Dalmatians.”

“But we are not Dalmatians any more, Pongo,” cried Missis. “We are black. They will think we are ordinary stray dogs. And we are illegal—ninety-nine dogs without collars. We shall be put in prison.”

“No, Missis!” But Pongo was shaken. He had forgotten they were now black dogs. Suppose the police did not recognize them? Suppose the Dearlys were never told about them? What happened to stray dogs that no one claimed?

“Please, Pongo, I beg you!” cried Missis. “Let us go on with our journey! I know it will be all right.”

They had now reached the road and were on the edge of the village. Pongo was faced with a terrible choice. But it still seemed to him wiser to trust the police than to lead the hungry, exhausted puppies into the bitter winter night.

“Missis, dear Missis, we must go to the police station,” he said, and turned towards the village. They could now see the burning bakery, and at that moment a huge flame leaped up through the roof. By its light Pongo saw the whole village street, with the villagers making a human chain to hand along buckets of water. And he also saw something else—something which made him stop dead, shouting, “Halt!” at the top of his bark.

In front of the burning bakery was a great striped black-and-white car. And with it was Cruella de Vil—standing right up on the roof of the car, where she had climbed so as to get a good view of the fire.

Her white face and absolutely simple white mink cloak no longer looked white. From head to foot she was bathed in the red-gold flicker of the flames. And as they leaped higher and higher she clapped her hands in delight.

The next instant there was a wild clamour of bells as the fire engine arrived at last. The noise, the flames, and, above all, the sight of Cruella were too much for many of the puppies. Squealing in terror, they turned and fled, with Pongo, Missis, and Lucky desperately trying to call them to order.

Fortunately, the clamour from the fire engine prevented anyone in the village from hearing the barking and yapping. And after a little while the terrified pups obeyed Pongo’s orders and stopped their headlong flight. They were very shamefaced as Pongo told them that, though he quite understood how they had felt, they must never, never behave in such a panic-striken way and must always, always obey orders instantly. Then he praised the pups who had stuck to the Cadpig’s cart, praised Patch for staying close to the Cadpig, rescued Roly Poly from a ditch, and counted the pups carefully. He did all this as hurriedly as possible, for he knew now that they must press on with their journey. There was no way they could get to the police station without passing Cruella de Vil.

Their plight was now worse than ever. They not only had to face the dangers of hunger and cold; there was the added danger of Cruella. They knew from the direction her car was facing that their enemy must have already been to Hell Hall and learned that they had escaped, and must now be on her way back to London. At any moment she might leave the fire and overtake them.

If only they could have left the road and travelled by the fields again! But there were now woods on either side of the road, woods so thick that the army could not have kept together.

“But we can hide in there, if we see the car’s headlights,” said Pongo, and explained this to the puppies. Then the army was on the march again.

“At least the pups are warm now,” said Missis. “And they have forgotten how tired and hungry they are. It will be all right, Pongo.”

The pace was certainly good for a couple of miles; then it got slower and slower.

“The puppies will have to rest,” said Missis. “And this is a good place for it.”

There was now a wide, grassy verge to the road. The moment Pongo called a halt, the pups sank down on the frosty grass. Many of them at once fell asleep.

“They ought not to sleep,” said Pongo anxiously.

“Let them, for a little while,” said Missis.

The Cadpig was not asleep. She sat up in her cart and said, “Will there be a barn soon, with kind cows and warm milk?”

“I’m sure there will be something nice,” said Missis. “Snuggle down in your hay, my darling. Pongo, how strangely quiet it is.”

They could no longer hear any sounds from the village. No breath of wind rustled the grass or stirred the trees. The world seemed frozen into a silvery, silent stillness.

Something soft and fluffy touched Pongo’s head, something that puzzled him. Then, as he realized what it was, Missis whispered, “Look, Pongo! Look at the puppies!”

Tiny white dots were appearing on the sooty black coats. Snow had begun to fall.

Missis said, smiling, “Instead of being white pups with black spots they are turning into black pups with white spots—only soon they will be all white. How soft and gentle the snow is!”

Pongo was not smiling. He cried, “If they sleep on until it has covered them, they will never wake—they will freeze to death beneath that soft, gentle snow! Wake up, pups! Wake up!”

By now, every pup but Lucky and the Cadpig had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep. Lucky helped his parents to rouse them, and the Cadpig helped too, sitting up in her cart and yapping piercingly. The poor pups begged to be left to sleep, and those who tottered onto their feet soon tottered off them again.

“We shall never get them going,” said Pongo despairingly.

For a moment the Cadpig stopped yapping, and there was a sudden silence. Then, from the village behind them, came the strident blare of the loudest motor-horn in England.

The pups sprang up, their exhaustion driven away by terror.

“To the woods!” cried Pongo. Then he saw that the woods were now protected by wire netting, through which not even the smallest pup could squeeze. And there was no ditch to hide in. But he could see that the woods ended, not very far ahead. “We must go on,” he cried. “There may be fields, there may be a ditch.”

The horn sounded again, repeatedly. Pongo guessed that the fire engine had put out the fire, and now Cruella was scattering the villagers as she drove on her way. Already she would be less than two miles behind them—and the great striped car could travel two miles in less than two minutes. But the woods were ending, there were fields ahead!

“To the fields!” cried Pongo. “Faster, faster!”

The pups made a great spurt forward, then fell back in dismay. For though the woods ended, the wire netting still continued, on both sides of them. There was still no way off the road. And the horn sounded again—louder and nearer.

“Nothing but a miracle can save us now,” said Pongo.

“Then we must find a miracle,” said Missis firmly. “Pongo, what is a miracle?”

It was at that moment that they suddenly saw, through the swirling snow, a very large van drawn up on the road ahead of them. The tailboard was down, and the inside of the van was lit by electric light. And sitting there, on a newspaper, was a Staffordshire Terrier with a short clay pipe in his mouth. That is, it looked like a clay pipe. It was really made of sugar and had once had a fine long stem. Now the Staffordshire drew the bowl of the pipe into his mouth and ate it. Then he looked up from the newspaper—which he was reading as well as sitting on—and stared in astonishment at the army of pups rushing helter-skelter towards him.

“Help, help, help!” barked Pongo. “We are being pursued. How soon can we get off this road?”

“I don’t know, mate,” barked back the Staffordshire. “You’d better hide in my van.”

“The miracle, the miracle!” gasped Pongo to Missis.

“Quickly, pups! Jump into the nice miracle,” said Missis, who now thought “miracle” was another name for a removal van.

A swarm of pups surged up the tailboard. Up went the Cadpig’s cart, pulled from the front and pushed from behind. Then more and more pups jumped or scrambled up until the entire army was in.

“Golly, there are a lot of you,” said the Staffordshire, who had flattened himself against the side of the van. “Lucky the van was empty. Who’s after you, mates? Old Nick?”

“Some relation of his, I think,” said Pongo. The strident horn sounded again, and now two strong headlights could be seen in the distance. “And she’s in that car.”

“Then I’d better put the light off,” said the Staffordshire, neatly working the switch with his teeth. “That’s better.”

Pongo’s heart seemed to miss a beat. Suddenly he knew that letting the pups get into the van had been a terrible mistake.

“But the car’s headlights will shine in,” he gasped. “Our enemy will see the pups.”

“Not black pups in a black van,” said the Staffordshire. “Not if they close their eyes.”

Oh, excellent suggestion! Quickly Pongo gave the command.

“Pups, close your eyes—or they will reflect the car’s headlights and shine like jewels in the darkness. Close them and do not open them, however frightened you are, until I give the word. Remember, your lives may depend on your obedience now. Close your eyes and keep them closed!”

Instantly all the puppies closed their eyes tight. And now the car’s headlights were less than a quarter of a mile away.

“Close your eyes, Missis,” said Pongo.

“And don’t forget to close your own, mate,” said the Staffordshire.

Now the car’s powerful engine could be heard. The strident horn blared again and again, as it telling the van to get out of the way. Louder and louder grew the noise from the engine. The glare from the headlights was now so intense that Pongo was conscious of it through his tightly shut eyelids. Would the pups obey orders? Or would terror make them look towards the oncoming car? Pongo himself had a wild desire to do so and a wild fear that the car was going to crash into the van. The noise of horn and engine grew deafening; the glare seemed blinding, even to closed eyes. Then, with a roar, the great striped car was on them—and past them, roaring on and on into the night!

“You may open your eyes now, my brave, obedient pups,” cried Pongo. And indeed they deserved praise, for not one eye had been opened.

“That was quite a car, mate,” said the Staffordshire to Pongo. “You must have quite an enemy. Who are you, anyway? The local pack of soot-hounds?” Then he suddenly stared very hard at Pongo’s nose. “Well, swelp me if it isn’t soot! And it doesn’t fool me. You’re the Missing Dalmatians. Want a lift back to London?”

A lift? A lift all the way in this wonderful van! Pongo and Missis could hardly believe it. Swiftly the pups settled to sleep on the rugs and blankets used for wrapping furniture.

“But why are there so many pups?” said the Staffordshire. “The newspapers don’t know the half of it, nor the quarter. They think there are only fifteen missing.”

Pongo started to explain, but the Staffordshire said they would talk during the drive to London. “My pets will be out of that house there any minute. Fancy us doing a removal on a Sunday—and Christmas Eve. But the van broke down yesterday, and we had to finish the job.”

“How many days will the journey to London take?” asked Missis.

“Days?” said the Staffordshire. “It won’t take much more than a couple of hours, if I know my pets. They want to get home to finish decorating their kids’ Christmas trees. Sssh, now! Pipe down, both of you.”

A large man in a rough apron was coming out of a nearby house. Missis thought, “As soon as one danger is past, another threatens.” Would they all be turned out of the miracle?

The Staffordshire, wagging his tail enthusiastically, hurled himself at the man’s chest, nearly knocking him down.

“Look out, Bill!” said the man, over his shoulder.

“The Canine Cannon Ball’s feeling frisky.”

Bill was an even larger man, but even he was shaken by the Staffordshire’s loving welcome.

“Get down, you Self-launched Bomb,” he shouted with great affection.

The two men and the Staffordshire came back to the van, and the Staffordshire jumped inside. The sooty Dalmatians, huddled together, were invisible in the darkness.

“Want to ride inside, do you?” said Bill. “Well, it is cold.” He put the tailboard up and shouted, “Next stop, St. John’s Wood.” A moment later the van started.

St. John’s Wood! Surely, that was where the Splendid Vet lived—quite close to Regent’s Park! What wonderful, wonderful luck, thought Pongo. Just then he heard a clock strike. It was still only eight o’clock.

“Missis!” he cried. “We shall get home tonight! We shall be home for Christmas!”

“Yes, Pongo,” said Missis gaily. But she did not feel as gay as she sounded. For Missis, who had been so brave, so confident up to the moment they had found the miracle, had suddenly been smitten by a great fear. Suppose the Dearlys did not recognize them now they were black dogs? Suppose the dear, dear Dearlys turned them away?

She kept her fears to herself. Why should she frighten Pongo with them? How fast the miracle was travelling! She thought of the days it had taken her and Pongo to reach Suffolk on foot. Why, it seemed like weeks since they had left London! Yet it was only—how long? Could it be only four days? They’d slept one day in the stable at the inn, one day at the dear Spaniel’s, one day in the Folly, part of a night in the barn after the escape from Hell Hall, then a day at the bakery. So much had happened in so short a time. And now, would it be all right when they got home? Would it? Would it?

Meanwhile, Pongo had his own worries. He had been telling the Staffordshire all about Cruella and had remembered what she had said that night at Hell Hall—how she intended to wait until people had forgotten about the stolen puppies, and then start her Dalmatian fur farm again. Surely he and Missis would get this lot of puppies safely home (it had never occurred to him that the Dearlys might not let them in), but what of the future? How could he make sure that other puppies did not end up as fur coats later on? He asked for advice.

“Why not kill this Cruella?” said the Staffordshire. “And I’ll help you. Let’s make a date for it now.”

Pongo shook his head. He had come to believe that Cruella was not an ordinary human but some kind of devil. If so, could one kill her? In any case, he didn’t want his pups to have a killer-dog for a father. He would have sprung at Cruella if she had attacked any pup, but he didn’t fancy cold-blooded murder. He told the Staffordshire so.

“Your blood would soon warm up, once you started the job,” said the Staffordshire. “Well, let me know if you change your mind. And now you take a nap, mate. You’ve still got quite a job ahead of you.”

The Staffordshire, like Missis, wondered if the Dearlys would recognize these black Dalmatians—and if even the kindest pets would take in so many pups. But he said nothing of this to Pongo.

Missis, Iulled by the movement of the van, had fallen asleep. Soon Pongo slept too. But their dreams were haunted by their separate anxieties.

On and on through the dark went the mile-eating miracle.