FROM THE LIFE
Then the battered wreck under him drew a long gurgle of breath that sounded like water in a waste-pipe. Carey staggered to his feet. He took up the revolver and cocked it.
"Now, you dog," he said, "get up!"
The man rolled over, writhing painfully.
"Come here, Mary," he ordered.
She was standing erect in the doorway, her nostrils dilated, her hands clenched. She came forward slowly in that attitude.
"This is your dog," he said. "Do you understand?"
She nodded, without taking her eyes from the creature on the floor.
"Good! Shall I shoot him?"
The man undoubtedly thought he had to do with a maniac. Nothing else could explain the villainous ferocity of the attack. He began to whimper and snuffle in plaintive oaths and pleadings, smearing his bleeding face with his torn hands.
"Shall I kill him?"
Mary shook her head, wide-eyed.
"Come closer," Carey ordered.
She came.
"Now," he said to the man, "roll over and lick her boots. Do it, you hound, or I'll tear the heart out of you!" With a cruelty that he would never have used to a dog Carey turned him over with the side of his foot. "On all-fours," he ordered. "Do it!"
[ 38 ]
