whiskey, and he was mad, and pulled my hair, and Peter bit him--
and then he picked up Peter and threw him against a rock--and he's
terribly hurt! Oh, Mister Jolly Roger--"

She held out the pup to him, and Peter whimpered as Jolly Roger
took his wiry little face between his hands, and then lifted him
gently. The girl was sobbing, with passionate little catches in
her breath, but there were no tears in her eyes as they turned for
an instant from Peter to the gun on the table.

"If I'd had that," she cried, "I'd hev killed him!"

Jolly Roger's face was coldly gray as he knelt down on the floor
and bent over Peter.

"He--pulled your hair, you say?"

"I--forgot," she whispered, close at his shoulder. "I wasn't goin'
to tell you that. But it didn't hurt. It was Peter--"

He felt the damp caress of her curls upon his neck as she bent
over him.

"Please tell me, Mister Jolly Roger--is he hurt--bad?"

With the tenderness of a woman Jolly Roger worked his fingers over
Peter's scrawny little body. And Peter, whimpering softly, felt
the infinite consolation of their touch. He was no longer afraid
of Jed Hawkins, or of pain, or of death. The soul of a dog is
simple in its measurement of blessings, and to Peter it was a