at the hair of Bart's shoulders; he growled softly, terribly, but she paid not the slightest heed.
“Your mother won't care,” asserted Vic.
“I know,” she nodded, “but Daddy will.”
“Spanking?”
She looked blankly at him.
“What will he do, then, if you come in to see me?”
“He'll look at me.” She grew breathless at the thought, and cast a guilty glance over her shoulder.
“Honey,” chuckled Gregg, weakly, “I'll take all the blame. Just you come along in and he'll do his lookin' at me.”
He thought of the slender fellow who had rescued him and his large, gentle brown eyes, but to a child even those mild eyes might seem terrible with authority.
“Will you, true?” said the child, wistfully.
“Honest and true.”
“All right.” She made up her mind instantly, her face shining with excitement. “Giddap, Bart.” And she thumped the wolf-dog vigorously with her heels.
He carried her in with a few gliding steps, soundless, except for the light rattle of claws on the floor, but he stopped well out of reach of the bed and when Vic held his left hand as far as he could across his chest, Bart winced and gave harsh warning. Vic had seen vicious dogs in his day, seen them fighting, seen them playing, but he had never heard one of them growl like this. The upper lips of the animal twitched dangerously back and the sound came from the very depths
