determination, the fearlessness of this infant. When she stepped away the wolf-dog stood trembling visibly but his eyes were still not upon the man he hated or feared to approach but upon the child's face.
“Can you pat him now?” she asked, not for an instant turning to Gregg.
“No, but it's close enough,” he assured her. “I don't want him any closer.”
“He's got to come.” She stamped. “Bart, you come here!”
He flinched forward, an inch. “Bart!” Her hands were clenched and her little body quivered with resolution; the snake-like head came to the very edge of the bed.
“Now pat him!” she commanded.
By very unpleasant degrees, Vic stretched his hand towards that growling menace.
“He'll take my arm off,” he complained. Shame kept him from utterly refusing the risk.
“He won't bite you one bit,” declared the child. “But I'll hold his nose if you're afraid.” And instantly she clasped the pointed muzzle between her hands.
Even when Vic's hand hovered above his head Bart had no eye for him, could not divert his gaze from the face of the child. Once, twice and again, delicately as one might handle bubbles, Gregg touched that scarred forehead.
“I made him come, didn't I?” she cried in triumph,
