Frank had given it to him, suggesting that it might be used to "step" in his boat, and the regular mast, shortened by the accident, be spliced to it, so as to realize the proper height.
It was one of those lucky streaks by which Lanky's misfortunes were usually tempered, even as the wind is to the shorn lamb. He only remembered that he was clutching this three-foot stout stick when he saw the hound jumping straight toward him.
There was only one thing to do, and that was to strike, and strike with all the power in his good arms. Lanky was a noted wielder of the willow in the baseball season, and knew just how to gauge a ball that was speeding toward him from the pitcher's box.
"Hey, there, get out, Brutus!" he shouted, on the spur of the moment.
Did Brutus obey? Not so it could be noticed. Indeed, truth to tell, the fierce old dog seemed to increase his speed, as though he had suddenly become aware of the fact that the intruder on the Seller grounds at this late hour of the night was an old foe, between whom and himself a vendetta had long existed.
"Gee! he's going to tackle me!" exclaimed Lanky, thrilled with the anticipation of meeting the animal on such apparently unequal terms.
