the ground had hurled something at the man whom the collie
had begun to love. That meant warfare. To the canine mind
it could mean nothing else.

And, ruff a-bristle and teeth bared, the dog flew at the beach
comber. The latter had followed his throw by leaping to his
feet. But, as he rose, the collie was at him. For an
instant, the furry whirlwind was snarling murderously at his
throat, and the man was beating convulsively at this
unexpected new enemy.

Then, almost before the collie could slash to the bone one of
the hairy big hands that thrust him backward, Gavin Brice had
reached the spot in a single bound, had shoved the dog to one
side and was at the man.

"Clear out, puppy!" he shouted, imperatively. "This is my
meat! When people get to slinging knives, there's no more
sense in handling them with gloves!"

The debonaire laziness was gone from Brice's voice and manner.
His face was dead-white. His eyes were blazing. His mouth
was a mere gash in the grim face. Even as he spoke, he had
thrust the snarling collie away, and was at the beach-comber.

No longer was it a question of boxing or of half-jesting
horseplay. The use of the knife had put this fight on a new
plane. And, like a wild beast, Gavin Brice was attacking his
big foe. But, unlike a wild beast, he kept his head, as he
charged.