"It pricks and stings and itches," complained the Tramp, unable to shake the sweater off, "and it feels stuffy. Even the fleas don't like it."
"Well," Lady cleared her throat, "I would have felt sorry for you, but what you've done the other day was so outrageous that I think you deserve it."
"I didn't do nothin'! Only wanted to give her a bit of a turn, is all," he said and began to scratch until a claw got stuck into the fabric. "Shucks," he growled, "not even society dogs look as dumb as I do now."
For the Tramp such were the days beginning then. With Lady, he made up shortly after their tangle, and Darling had never really thought much of his outburst. But the sweater—oh, that hateful thing; the sweater haunted him on every possible occasion.
Many tales of pesky sweaters had surfaced around the alleyways of the great city, told by other dogs who had only witnessed the misery from far away. And though the Tramp had heard them all before, he never believed any; he himself had never seen a sweater. But the Tramp now learned, at last, why those tales were told with such dismay. He found out, to the full, what a sweater was.
It was the flea that never stopped biting.
The muzzle impossible to escape.
It was there when he leaned for a lap of water, tingling his neck when it slid downward.
And always there to rob him of the pleasure of being patted by loving human hands; they mostly patted on the sweater.
Once, the Tramp had thought he could outrun the dastard. Oh, but what bad luck; when he thought he almost made it, in his rush, the sweater caught on to a sharp corner; the Tramp tripped to a tumble on the carpet, mustache first, spreading growls across the fuzzy floor.
Even in his sleep, he dreamed of sweaters and they were all bad dreams. In his dreams, sweaters were everywhere and all of them were ugly and prickly and itchy; the walls, the floor; even his own dish were sweaters. Darling was a human sweater and Lady was a dog sweater and they crawled toward him with sinister purpose in their fabric, the Tramp, only he was still himself running through endless rooms of endless sweaters, and suddenly the sweaters called out and leaped onto him from all directions—one sweater, two sweaters, a hundred sweaters—until the whole house, a gigantic house of sweaters, collapsed over him.
And the rains still raged on. When the Tramp sat by the sill on lazy afternoons, he snarled and barked and cursed at the clouds and the wind and the raindrops slinking down the window, believing that, if there was a little bit of sun, too, perhaps he would have been spared of this dog trap.
But a sunny day did come eventually, then another and another, and the Tramp was ecstatic in the hope that he will soon get the rotten thing off. That, however, never happened, and Darling, as response to Jim Dear when he brought the matter up—to avoid a grim future where another sweater will be destroyed and he would have to cook again—had merely answered, "Well, it could start raining again any moment. In any case, what's the bother? It keeps the dirt and bugs away."
It was then that the Tramp understood that Darling was a truly lost hope. If he wanted to get rid of the sweater, he had to put his own head to work.
So for the few days that the seldom sun was up, shining over the world, the Tramp spent his afternoons loafing in the damp grass but never absent-mindedly; he might have appeared accepting of his unfortunate fate, chewing sadly on a bone he had dug up, when, in fact, he was devising a way out of his fleecy bind. This, he conceived, was no mere catcher or alley dust-up with strange dogs. He could so easily gnaw at it and tear it up, but Darling's happiness was at stake. A cunningly contrived plan was vital and there was no margin for error.
And yet, whatever cleverness he thought of trying, nothing bore any result.
He tried talking Lady into a scuffle, thinking that sharing the blame for an accident would make it easier for Darling to forgive a shredded sweater. But such folly only got reproaches out of Lady.
He visited Jock's and Trusty's homes. Being older, they must have dealt with sweaters before. Though, the Tramp's bewilderment could not have been greater when, instead of words of pity and helping hands, they met him with praise and friendly accolades, and Jock, who wore a sweater of his own then, had even boasted about how his was simply a mite prettier. Though the Tramp's, too, was an intriguing sweater in its own regard, Jock took the trouble to remark.
And he even thought of hiding it. Purposefully he went into Darling's flower garden, though he knew he was not allowed to, where the earth was still wet and dirty, and rolled in the mud until Darling had no choice but to give him—and the sweater—an early bath. The Tramp wickedly planned it so that, when Darling would hang the sweater out in the sun to dry, he would snatch it when she wasn't looking and hide it far away in the darkest corner of the town.
But even that seemingly flawless idea had failed him—it just had to start raining again that afternoon. Darling, instead, dried the sweater on the backrest of a chair in the kitchen where the Tramp could do nothing except stare in goaded anger at the cursed thing.
But the Tramp, for as long as there was still a bark left in him, did not give up. Awake or asleep, he always kept a wary eye out for that ray of hope.
And it was when he least expected it that it shone down on him; when the wary eye was resting and the hopes had all but faded. Snoozing stiffly on the porch mat, at first it seemed to him like yet another cart and horse were passing by. Nothing out of place from the dozen others that had pricked his ears, and this one cart master was exceedingly loud, too.
"I cash clothes!" he kept on shouting, "I cash clothes!"
The Tramp's eyes merely flickered, and he turned the other way to resume his drowse. But a second voice brought him to his haunches.
"Hello? Old-clothesman! I'll be down in a moment!"
The Tramp cocked his head. It was Darling, signaling at the cart master from the window of her bedroom. Soon, he spotted her coming out the front door, with an arm full of clothes covering her, walking swift steps where the man waited in the street.
It was the rag man. And Darling had old rags to give.
In the Tramp flowed a vague curiosity watching the two humans. Though, it was not until he rose to leave inside that it struck him. The Tramp saw Darling loading her old things inside the empty cart and a wicked glint kindled the look on his face.
"Why," he said in a waggish manner, eying the rag man's sleeping horse, "but I, too, have old rags to give, don't I?"
For the Tramp had leaped over the fence and was sneaking behind Darling and the cart master to set his newfound plan in motion.
"Hey, pal!" whispered the Tramp.
The horse was a docile animal. In his sleep, he had not heard the Tramp approaching, yet did not shy away when his big eyes glimpsed him.
"Oh?" the horse nickered and turned slightly. "A dog."
"No kiddin'." the Tramp chuckled.
The horse leaned down and dragged his thick tongue over his face.
"Quit that!" the Tramp drew himself away with a sneeze. "What's the big idea?"
"Ah! You're that Tramp dog." discovered the horse, and his bass was low. "What a happy chance, innit? My friends at the stables have told me about you. The pound master's mare has been asking, you know. She said it hasn't been the same since you stopped visiting the stables."
"Well, the pound master has me high up on the hit list." said the Tramp. "But no time for that now. I came to talk business."
"Business?" the horse allowed his big head to rise. "I don't do business with dogs, Tramp dog. I'm the rag master's cob! But," he leaned down again and began to whisper, "I wouldn't mind making an exception for a friend's friend. Besides, as of late, the trade has been poor, you see. We haven't gotten anything much in days, and that human brought only a few dresses with her. Not long 'till Master will have to trade me away, too."
The Tramp exhaled in relief deceivingly. "Then good thing I showed up, big boy. I'll cut you a deal you'd be givin' your trusty hooves for."
"A deal?" the horse cleared his throat, and again he rose his hairy head. "I'm the rag master's cob, you know? Not easily convinced. But," once more he leaned and subsided into a whisper, "I'm willing to listen, Tramp dog."
"Oh, you won't regret it one bit." the Tramp grinned his crafty grin. "Now, see this thing wrapped 'round me?"
The horse stared at the garment for a lengthy second. "A sweater," he mentioned rather halfheartedly.
"It's a sweater for us dogs." nodded the Tramp. "But not your plain vanilla sweater. Get this - only one like it exists. See the patterns? See the buttons? Blink and you might miss 'em. You won't see another anywhere else. The flush and minted go ravin' mad about it. Even unicorns aren't this rare, big boy!" he winked.
"Oh?" the horse was discernibly tempted. "You don't say."
"But I do! Doesn't prick, sting, itch, and cleaning it is as easy as pie," the Tramp leaned and smiled with sly charm. "And best of all, it keeps the bugs away—fact approved by humans. And I know what I'm saying, big boy—I sleep in the same bed with them. Look at me; no dog around with fewer fleas. I can't remember the last time I had to scratch one away."
It was true. The horse was in awe. He looked closely and saw no flea, unknowing of the bath the Tramp had taken. His big eyes sparkled with the allure of a lifetime's chance. Though, he did not let it lead him up the garden's path.
"Wadaya say?" the Tramp urged an answer out. "Worth a good buck for your human. And you get to keep your job."
"Well, it is an intricate piece of human knitting, no doubt of it." he decided, yet could not help not squint with suspicion. "But, Tramp dog, do not take me for a fool. I'm the rag master's cob, after all. I can smell a snag when I see one."
"Nope!" the Tramp shook his head. "No trick, no trap, no jocker in the pack. You're lucky it runs a little tight on me now. I've had it since I was a wee lad, you know. So be a pal and help me get it off, and, for as little as free, it can be yours and your human's over there!" his voice held a lilt so unusually familiar to the horse that he thought his own master was talking. "All you gotta do is grab right here and pull hard."
"Well," he mumbled contemplatively, "one thing Master has taught me is that you never say no if it's on the house. Alright then, Tramp dog. Now, if you'll just stand still-"
The horse grabbed with his teeth on to the back of the sweater and, with one swift pull, it was off. All of the Tramp's problems went away. He felt as though he had lost all his weariness along with the hateful thing. He jumped and danced and leaped about. Sun shone warm over him, wind blew freshly through his tousled hair. The Tramp was a bundle of thrills. And the horse contented just the same had trotted off with his master, the sweater in his teeth, having closed his first-ever deal.
Inside the kitchen was Lady, drowsy after the afternoon nap. She had slept through all that circus the Tramp had put together, which she most certainly should have put a stop to. She had heard Darling go upstairs, though she chose not to accompany her. The Tramp was not anywhere inside the house and, to Lady, that was worry enough. He must have been up to no good again.
Instinct drew her to the little door. But what a scare! For the Tramp came rushing through and with such speed that Lady could not even think to skip aside. Their bump sent them stumbling across the slippery kitchen floor and Lady could swear he was laughing.
"Pigeon, you lovely little thing!"
The Tramp was in a transport of joy. Having escaped his tightest jam yet, he drowned the clueless, drowsy Lady in licks and kisses and, quite frankly, delirious affection. He was, indeed, a winner. For all the unlucky dogs who had fallen prey to sweaters, he created hope.
Lady was unknowing of his feat. The dizziness hadn't allowed her to notice the change but she suspected something was odd about him.
Between tender gestures, Lady caught her breath to ask, "What came into you all of a sudden?"
"Nothing." the Tramp hoped to hide his lark behind his broad smile. "What do you suppose?"
Lady did not let herself be fooled. But darned be her vigilant eye, for it was then when she wished she rather did not have it.
"Tramp!" she gasped. Shock and dread overcame her as she looked in a frenzy around the kitchen. "What did you do to your sweater?"
The Tramp wagged his tongue back and forth. "Sweater? I don't know anything of any sweater."
Lady sank to her paws. "Oh, dear!" she moaned. "When Darling finds out, she will-"
"Darling!" the front door opened with Jim Dear's voice echoing throughout. "You came to your senses at last."
Lady and the Tramp swerved their heads, then dashed to the entrance. They heard Darling's footsteps climbing down the stairs and the tone of her voice which was anything but happy of what her ears had heard Jim Dear say.
"James," Darling was almost angry, "what in heavens do you mean?"
Jim Dear did not answer. He simply stretched his arm forward. But that alone was enough to make Darling nearly trip on her way down.
"Oh!" she panted once then rushed to him. "Why are you holding that? Give it here!"
For Jim Dear held nothing but that hateful sweater.
The Tramp could only stare, eyes wide, mouth agape with incredulity. Lady eyed him disapprovingly, her gaze full of reproofs, as she was certain he must have done another blunder. But Jim Dear could not have been any more confused.
"I found it outside on the street," he explained. "Fell out of the rag man's cart. Was it not you who gave it to him?"
"That scoundrel! That thief!" she exclaimed, brushing the dust away from the sweater, "Why would I do such a terrible thing? He must have snatched it when I wasn't looking!"
Jim Dear sighed, took his hat off then covered his face with it. "Of all the things you could've dropped, you dropped the sweater, old man," he muttered incoherently in his hat.
He watched somberly how Darling dressed the Tramp with the sweater and guilt grew heavy on him. The Tramp did not complain, did not bare his teeth, and no dangerous growl cooked inside his throat. But Jim Dear knew—he did not need to hear growls or whines or yelps. It was all in the Tramp's eyes, for he saw it once before in Lady too. The helplessness.
The Tramp glanced at Jim Dear with the corner of his eye and let one canine slip out beneath his lip. When Jim leaned to scratch him under the chin, and Darling touched his nose with her finger, the Tramp licked their hands gently. It did not matter—in his head, he was already murdering them both in cold blood.
It tired the Tramp; the mere idea that the sweater found its way back made him crash to the carpet. There were no more clever plans to try. The rain had again begun to fall; the clouds obscured even the tiniest ray of hope left. And he could not shake the shameful thought that a human had stumped him at last. Should Darling have been a dog catcher, she would have cleared the whole town in a trice. Darling and her doggone sweaters.
And so the Tramp had given up.