OWEN CAREY
He did it—after a fashion. It was not a pretty scene.
"There!" Carey said. "Good! Now! This is your dog, Mary. Understand? See him. Your dog. Wipe your feet on him. Do it!"
She did it—with the expression of a child who is being encouraged to touch a cowed animal that she has been afraid of.
"Good! Now kick him!"
She shook her head. She said, slowly, "Let him go."
Carey looked at her. There was no fear of any one in her face. "Fine!" he said. "Here, you cur, crawl back to that door! Go on! Do it! Slowly! Grovel. Whine like the cur you are. Whine, or I'll shoot the ears off you. Now! If I ever meet you again, I'll kill you on sight."
He threw the door open. The man crawled out on hands and knees. Carey kicked the hat out after him and slammed the door shut.
They heard him stumbling frantically up the outer stairs.
Carey stood waiting—an unromantic figure—his collar torn open, his face scratched, one eye beginning to swell, and his complexion turning a delicate green with a seasick feeling that never afflicted his heroes after battle. She came toward him with her hands out, slowly, stiffly, tremulously confident, smiling, dry-lipped, pale. He laid the revolver on the table and took her in his arms.
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