"I mean," said Wefers, rebuking with a cold glare the Master's
disrespectful manner, "I mean I'm here to shoot that big collie
of yours. He was bit by a mad dog, yesterday. So was three other
dogs over in the village. I shot 'em all; before they had time to
d'velop symptoms and things; or bite anybody. One of 'em," he
added, unctuously, "one of 'em b'longed to that little crippled
Posthanger girl. She cried and begged, something pitiful, when I
come for him. But dooty is dooty. So I--"

"OH!"

The Mistress's horrified monosyllable broke in on the smug
recital. She caught Lad protectingly by the ruff and stared in
mute dread at the lanky and red-whiskered officer. Lad, reading
her voice as always, divined this nasal-toned caller had said or
done something to make her unhappy. His ruff bristled. One corner
of his lip lifted in something which looked like a smile, but
which was not. And, very far down in his throat a growl was born.

But the Master stepped in front of his wife and his dog, and
confronted the constable. Fighting for calmness, he asked:

"Do I understand that you shot those harmless little pups just
because a dog that was sick, and not rabid, happened to nip them?
And that you've come across here with an idea of doing the same
thing to Lad? Is that it?"

"That's the idea," assented Wefers. "I said so, right off, as
soon as I got here. Only, you're wrong about the dog being