between his clenched teeth; he stood like a statue of a collie, rigid and menacing.
"Hand him over to me, then!" commanded the intruder.
"Who are you, anyhow?" cried Jonathan Perch, getting to his feet. The old man trembled like one of his own poplar-trees which stood silver and quivering beside the front gate.
"Me? I'm the dog-catcher. That's what I am. Hand me over that there dog! You ain't paid his taxes. Hand him over!"
"I'll see you in hell first," replied Jonathan, steadily. David advanced a little and took up his position at the head of the porch steps. He retained the same attitude, and showed as yet no intention to spring; but beneath the collie's wrinkled upper lip the tooth which reminds us most of a wolf and least of a housemate in our desert dog gleamed so that Jonathan slipped a finger through David's collar.
"I don't know's I blame ye," remarked the dog-catcher, unexpectedly; he retreated a step or two and stood uncertain. "Folks says you set a sight by the critter. Why don't you pay up, then?"
"I've got seventy-six cents towards it," pleaded the old man. His shaking hands went to his pocket.
"The Town don't receipt on account," said the dog-catcher, with an accent of marked disgust. "I'll call again," he added, looking David in the glaring eyes. "I—I won't take the critter to-day."
Then David laughed.
"You'd better pay up," advised the dog-catcher, not unkindly. "'R else you'd better let me have him and have it over. We kill 'em easy. We ain't Apaches—not if we be the Pound! I'll give ye till come a Chuseday—that's three days—to think it over, Jonathan." The dog-catcher turned. "Besides," he continued, thoughtfully, "it mought be better for ye, come to long run o't. There is folks that says ye hadn't orter to be feedin' so big a critter, and you dependin' on the Town. See? If the Town should get to thinkin' that way—an' come to stoppin' yer aid—where'd you be, I'd like to know? Or the critter, either. See? He'd come up in our hands anyhow you fix it. See?"
"I see," replied Jonathan, in a very low voice. "Thank you. Good morning. David! No, sir!—David! Let that man alone, sir!"
For David had reared and stood—roaring, and defying the feeble old finger which retained him.
"He's no fool of a dog," admitted the dog-catcher with reluctant professional admiration. "Why don't ye sell him?"
The man in the seersucker climbed into his wagon without further remark, and drove noisily away. Once he looked back. David, straining on the skate-strap, was using mighty language. The June afternoon echoed with the dog's adjectives and substantives. The dog-catcher smiled with grim appreciation as he drove away.
But Jonathan did not smile. He shook from head to foot. He could with difficulty keep his fingers on David's collar. He felt himself suddenly very faint, and brokenly appealed to the dog:
"Don't, Davie—don't, dear! I can't hold you, David. You stay with master. Master feels sick, David—he—"
His head drooped and fell over upon the head of the collie, whose mood and manner changed immediately. He began to lap the old man's face, whining the while, but retaining such a position as to support the weight which had fallen against him until Jonathan somewhat recovered himself.
"Thank you, David," he said, catching his breath, feebly. "You always were a good nurse. David! David! What shall we do?"
At this moment Jonathan perceived that wheels had stopped again in front of his house. They belonged to an empty victoria driven by a liveried coachman who was exercising a smart black pair.
"How much will you take for your dog?" demanded the coachman, without preliminaries.
"Who are you?" gasped Jonathan, "and what do you want of him?"
"These are Mrs. Mersey's horses," replied the coachman, haughtily. "I thought everybody knew that. She wants a dog—a good dog. I'm looking about for her."
"Oh, she?" quavered Jonathan. "I never met the lady, but I suppose—I've reason to think she must be a kind lady. Do you think she would treat him—
