Ragamuffin's boot

Eric Twitten was enjoying a drink at The Lamb in Durrington. He was in the habit of taking his cross-breed dog, Ragamuffin, with him. Ragamuffin usually occupied the space in front of the fire and the landlord was minded to ban him from the pub.

“Now look here,” he said to Eric.

Then he noticed Ragamuffin looking at him as if he were a tasty morsel he might have for his tea.

He changed the subject.

“Hey, what has your dog got there?”

Eric looked. Ragamuffin had picked up a boot from somewhere and was guarding it with two paws while taking the occasional nibble.

“Anybody missing a boot?” Eric asked.

None of the regulars were missing a boot.

“He must have picked it up on the way here,” Eric concluded.

Ragamuffin took the boot back home in his mouth as if it were a new-born puppy.

“You are not bringing that filthy old boot in my clean kitchen,” was Peggy's verdict. The boot had to remain outside until Eric had washed and dried it.

Ragamuffin greeted it like a long-lost friend. He walked around the house with it, much to Peggy's impotent disgust.

From then on, whenever Eric and Ragamuffin went for a walk, which was every day, old boot had to come too, firmly held in Ragamuffin's somewhat slobbery jaws.

Peggy made it clear that it was not coming on her weekly shopping expeditions.

Ragamuffin protested.

Peggy made as though to leave him behind.

He dropped the old boot.

The co-op was right next door to the Lamb so Ragamuffin could have made his way there with his eyes closed.

Peggy had to leave him tied up outside and (don't tell Eric) she always left him with something to chew, a bone or a pig's ear, while she did the weekly shop.

“What have you got there, Ragamuffin?” she asked when she had finished the shopping and caught up on the Durrington gossip.

Ragamuffin tried to conceal his find.

“It's another boot!” Peggy concluded. “There's something odd about this. It looks just the same as t'other which means they are both right boots and not a pair.”

When she got home and washed and dried the boot, only to have Ragamuffin slobber all over it when he got it back, her suspicion was confirmed.

Eric and Peggy both had a go at guessing the story behind Ragamuffin's boots but the truth was rather strange.

The public bar of the Lamb was an all-male affair in those days. Once a man had tried to bring his girl friend in but he had been diverted to the saloon bar with a flea in his ear.

They all knew each other. Although Eric was an incomer, he was more-or-less accepted because he didn't mind standing a round of drinks once in a while. They accepted him. They also accepted the drinks.

So the arrival of a stranger was something of an event.

The man slouched awkwardly up to the bar, aware that everybody was watching him. He leant heavily on a crutch. He counted his money and had just enough for a half pint of bitter.

With a glass in his hand, he had the confidence to look around the bar and acknowledge the hard stares of the locals with an easy grin.

When he got to Ragamuffin, he stopped. He walked over to the dog, who didn't seem to mind. He patted his head and turned to the company with the air of a man with a story to tell. If you can't buy a round of drinks, tell a good yarn.

“A fine dog, What's his name, may I ask?”

“Ragamuffin.”

“A good tough name for a good tough dog, I'll warrant.”

Eric smiled at this. Peggy had chosen the name but it was a very suitable one.

“Well your Ragamuffin has got something of mine. Mind you I don't begrudge it.”

Now he had everyone's attention.

“That's my old right boot, you see.”

Nobody asked how he had come to lose it so he stamped on the floor with his wooden leg to make the point.

“Yes, I lost my leg to a blasted French cannon ball so I don't begrudge Ragamuffin here of any of my boots he might take a fancy to.”

The company bought him all the drinks he could possibly want while he told his war stories and they talked about the bloody French, the blasted French and the bastard French in the somewhat repetitive manner of a bar crowd.

Eric chanced upon the stranger later that evening as they wandered unsteadily from the Lamb. The stranger approached him confidentially.

“Eric, Eric, Eric, you're my bes' friend in the whole wassname. I tell you what, I tell you what, I tell you what,”

Eric was beginning to wonder what was “what”, then the stranger continued.

“You don't need to mind my stories, Eric. I'm away to Goring in the morning so I may as well tell you the truth. You see I lost my leg in a common or garden wassname, you know 'dustrial accident. Nobody'll buy you a drink and think you an excelent fellow if you tell them about that.”

“If you liked my war stories, mind, I'll be telling the good folk at the Mulberry all about them tomorrow night.”

Eric wished him goodnight.

From then on, Ragamuffin had to decide which boot he was taking with him when they went for a walk. He tried to hold on to both of them but even his mouth wasn't quite up to the task.

The end