"He won't come," she cried plaintively.

"I have it!" he exclaimed, his face brightening. "Will you hand me that
three-tined pitchfork over there? With that in my hands I'll make
Swallow see--Look out! For heaven's sake, don't go near him! He'll kill
you." She had taken two or three steps toward the dog, her hand extended
pleadingly, only to be met by an ominous growl, a fine display of teeth,
and a bristling back. As if paralyzed, she halted at the foot of the
ladder, terror suddenly taking possession of her.

"Can you get the pitchfork?"

"I am afraid to move," she moaned. "He is horrible--horrible!"

"I'll come down, Mrs. Delancy, and hang the consequences," Crosby cried,
and was suiting the action to the word when she cried out in
remonstrance.

"Don't come down--don't! He'll kill you. I forbid you to come down, Mr.
Crosby. Look at him! Oh, he's coming toward me! Don't come down!" she
shrieked. "I'll come up!"

Grasping her skirts with one hand she started frantically up the ladder,
her terrified eyes looking into the face of the man above. There was a
vicious snarl from the dog, a savage lunge, and then something closed
over her arm like a vice. She felt herself being jerked upward and a
second later she was on the beam beside the flushed young man whose
strong hand and not the dog's jaws had reached her first. He was obliged
to support her for a few minutes with one of his emphatic arms, so near
was she to fainting.