"Come along, puppy," he bade the wildly excited collie. "He
isn't dead. Another couple of seconds and his neck or his
back must have gone. I'm glad he fainted first. A killing
isn't a nice thing to remember on wakeful nights, the killing
of even a cur like that. Come on, before he wakes up. I'm
going somewhere. And it's a stroke of golden luck that I've
got you to take with me, by way of welcome."

He had picked up and pocketed his watch. Now, lifting the
knife, he glanced shudderingly at its ugly curved blade. Then
he tossed it far out into the water. After which, he chirped
again to the gladly following collie and made off down the
beach, toward a loop of mangrove swamp that swelled out into
the water a quarter-mile farther on.

The dog gamboled gayly about him, as they walked, and tried to
entice him into a romp. Prancing invitingly toward Brice, the
collie would then flee from him in simulated terror. Next,
crouching in front of him, the dog would snatch up a mouthful
of sand, growl, and make pattering gestures with his white
forefeet at Gavin's dusty shoes.

Failing to lure his new master into a frolic, the dog fell
sober and paced majestically alongside him, once or twice
earning an absent-minded pat on the head by thrusting his
muzzle into the cup of the walker's hand.

As they neared the loop of the swamp, the collie looked back,
and growled softly, under his breath. Gavin followed the
direction of the dog's gaze. He saw the beach comber sit up,