Then--perhaps it was the drink playing tricks with Ferris's
mind--it seemed to him that he could still see those deep-set
dark eyes staring up at him through the murk, with that same
fearless and yet piteous look in their depths. It was a look that
the brief sputter of match-light had photographed on Link's
brain.

"I--I ain't got the heart to swat you while you keep lookin' that
way at me," he muttered half-aloud, as if to a human companion.
"Jes' you turn your head the other way, pup! It'll be over quick,
an' easy."

By the faint light Link could see the dog had not obeyed the
order to turn his head. But at the man's tone of compassion the
great plumy tail began to thump the ground in feeble response.

"H'm!" grunted Link, letting the stone drop to the road, "got
nerve, too, ain't you, friend? 'Tain't every cuss that can wag
his tail when his leg's bust."

Kneeling down again he examined the broken foreleg more
carefully. Gentle as was his touch, yet Link knew it must cause
infinite torture. But the dog did not flinch. He seemed to
understand that Ferris meant kindly, for he moved his magnificent
head far enough to lick the man's hand softly and in gratitude.

The caress had an odd effect on the loveless Ferris. It was the
first voluntary mark of affection he had encountered for longer
than he liked to remember. It set old memories to working.