PART I

THE GATES OF BRASS




CHAPTER I

A JUG OF WATER


It was certainly not Caesar's fault. Caesar was as well-meaning a
Dalmatian as ever scampered in the wake of a cantering horse. And if Mike
in his headlong Irish fashion chose to regard the scamper as a gross
personal insult, that was surely not a matter for which he could
reasonably be held responsible. And yet it was upon the luckless Caesar
that the wrath of the gods descended as a consequence of Mike's
wrong-headed deductions.

It began with a rush and a snarl from the Vicarage gate and it had
developed into a set and deadly battle almost before either of the
combatants had fully realized the other.

The rider drew rein, yelling furiously; but his yells were about as
effectual as the wail of an infant. Neither animal was so much as aware
of his existence in those moments of delirious warfare. They were locked
already in that silent, swaying grip which every fighting dog with any
knowledge of the great game seeks to establish, to break which mere
humans may put forth their utmost strength in vain.