the snarlingly rabid dog back from his prey.

The place was in an uproar. Nurses and doctors came rushing out
into the vestibule; sick and wounded men sat up on their cots and
eagerly craned their necks to catch sight of the scrimmage.
Soldiers ran in from the street.

Strong as he was, Mahan had both hands full in holding the
frantic Bruce back from his enemy. Under the insult of the kick
from this masquerader, whom he had already recognized as a foe,
the collie had temporarily lost every vestige of his stately
dignity. He was for the moment merely a wild beast, seeking
revenge for a brutal injury. He writhed and fought in Mahan's
grasp. Never once did he seek to attack the struggling man who
held him. But he strained every giant sinew to get at the foe who
had kicked him.

The dog's opponent scrambled to his feet, helped by a dozen
willing hands and accosted by as many solicitous voices. The
victim's face was bone-gray with terror. His lips twitched
convulsively. Yet, as befitted a person in his position, he had a
splendid set of nerves. And almost at once he recovered partial
control over himself.

"I--I don't know how it happened," he faltered, his rich
contralto voice shaky with the ground-swells of his recent shock.
"It began when I was sitting on the steps, sewing. This dog came
past. He growled at me so threateningly that I came indoors. A
minute later, while I was sitting here sewing, he sprang at me
and threw me down. I believe he would--would have killed me," the