Just before they dispersed,
however, a shy little chap named Jimmy Duffy, who had not much
opportunity to speak amid the noise of stronger voices, said:

"But, Mr. Benson, you _do_ think the dray-horse thought and reasoned,
don't you?"

"Surely he did, boy! And he spoke, too, in his own simple
horse-language, though we cannot understand his tongue; but we should,"
answered Benson's father.

It was not very long before the "Animal Rescue Club" of North Street
became known far and wide, and its influence began to be felt in all
quarters. The unfeeling drayman whose act of cruelty first gave rise
to the organization was watched, then reported to police headquarters,
from where he received a sound lecture because of various other
ill-treatments of his horse, and after a time he began to see his own
unkindness through the same spectacles as the "Animal Rescuers" viewed
it, and within two months he became a considerate, gentle driver.

"If the club never does another thing but reform that one man, and make
him kinder to that big, good-hearted horse of his, it has been organized
for some purpose," commented Mr. Benson, one evening, when he "dropped
in" to one of the meetings. "Keep it up, fellows. Our little four-footed
animals serve us well, and deserve consideration in return." And the
boys worked hard and faithfully to follow his advice. Homeless cats,
stray, mangy dogs, ill-fed horses, neglected cows, street sparrows,
pigeons, bluejays, were watched and protected and relieved of their
sufferings all that winter through. Finally Benson's father arranged his
evenings so that he could spend an hour with the club at each meeting,
which time he devoted to "lecturing" on the habits and haunts of
animals and birds. Those lectures were the delight of all, for this
happy-hearted, boyish man would, in some marvellous fashion, discover
all the humorous habits and comical dispositions and actions of every
living thing. The little wiry-haired Irish terrier was a comedian, he
declared. The bull-moose was a tragedian, the black bear cub was a
clown, the lynx a villain, and the migrating birds a sweet, invisible
chorus. Then to each and all he would attach some fascinating story,
explaining why they resembled these characters. Often the entire club
would be roaring with laughter over animal antics and bird capers,
then the young faces would be very serious the next minute over some
pathetic, heartbreaking tale of hunted deer-mothers