"Is this a damned kennel?" he shouted. "Do I got to drink in a barnyard?
What's the dog doin' here?"

And he caught up the heavy little whiskey glass and hurled it at the
crouching dog. It thudded heavily, but it brought no yelp of pain;
instead, a black thunderbolt leaped from the corner and lunged down the
room. It was the silence of the attack that made it terrible, and Strann
cursed and pulled his gun. He could never have used it. He was a whole
half second too late, but before the dog sprang a voice cut in: "Bart!"

It checked the animal in its very leap; it landed on the floor and slid
on stiffly extended legs to the feet of Strann.

"Bart!" rang the voice again.

And the beast, flattening to the floor, crawled backwards, inch by inch;
it was slavering, and there was a ravening madness in its eyes.

"Look at it!" cried Strann. "By God, it's mad!"

And he raised his gun to draw the bead.

"Wait!" called the same voice which had checked the spring of the dog.
Surely it could not have come from the lips of Barry. It held a
resonance of chiming metal; it was not loud, but it carried like a
brazen bell. "Don't do it, Strann!"

And it came to every man in the barroom that it was unhealthy to stand
between the two men at that instant; a sudden path opened from Barry to
Strann.