"Very well, very well," exclaimed the other; "the law covers just such
cases as yours--covers them perfectly," and he laughed a coarse, cruel
laugh. "Out with the money, or I take the dog."

"Take my dog!" screamed the old man, "take Trusty! What should you take
him for? You can't want him."

"Oh, yes, I do, old fellow," retorted the other; "I want him very much
indeed, I know just what to do with him, I'll see to that."

"Do with him?" cried the other, whose mind, perhaps because paralyzed by
fear, perhaps because of the enormity of the deed, would not receive the
horrible suggestion, "what would you do with Trusty?"

"Kill him, damn you!" shouted the other; "kill him as I have a hundred
other curs this fall and pocket the money the law gives me for doing it.
Do you understand that, you old dead-beat?"

For a moment the wretched man never spoke, his lips paled to the color
of ashes, and shrivelled as if suddenly parched against the teeth, and
he clutched the back of a chair for support. Twice he essayed to speak,
his lips moved, but his tongue in its dryness clove to the roof of his
mouth. At last he gasped forth in the hoarse whisper of mortal terror:

"Kill my dog! kill Trusty!"

It was a sorry sight, truly, and might well touch the hardest heart. But
the officer of the law--God save the mark!--remained unmoved. What was
one dog more or less to him? had he not already killed hundreds, as he
said? The sportsman's favorite hunter, astray without his collar, the