glanced eagerly over his shoulder for some haven of safety. None was near. And then—oh, horror!—down they slid calmly and noiselessly.
Paddy "I Bag the Tail!"
Poor Dad! He was at a disadvantage; his legwork was hampered. He was hobbled. Could he only get free of them altogether! But he couldn't—his feet were large. He took a lesson from the foe and jumped—jumped this way and that way, and round about, while large drops of perspiration rolled off him. The small dogs displayed renewed and ridiculous ferocity, often mistaking Dad for the marsupial. At last Dad became exhausted—there was no spring left in him. Once he nearly went down. Twice he tripped. He staggered again—down he was going—down, down—and down he fell! But at the same moment, and, as though they had dropped from the clouds, Brindle and five or six other dogs pounced on the "old man." The rest may be imagined.
Dad lay on the ground to recover his wind, and when he mounted Farmer again and silently turned for home,
