THE FOUL FANCIER
In the sixth round of his fight with Kid Feltman, the end came. And itwas not at all the end that anybody but Dan Rorke and Keegan, hismanager, looked for.
For the outclassed and battered and wabbling Rorke won.
Two minutes earlier, no one in the Pastime Athletic Club auditoriumwould have bet a cancelled lottery ticket on Rorke's chances. And theresult left the crowd as puzzled as was the raging Feltman himself.
No; Rorke did not see one sweet face in the throng--a face that nervedhim to superhuman effort and victory. Nor did he spur himself to aHerculean last stand that won him the fight. That was not Dan Rorke'sway. And most assuredly it was not the way of his manager and mentor,Red Keegan. The victory was won by subtler and less hackneyed methods.
Here, in brief, was the procedure:
At the end of the fifth round Dan had slumped back to his corner,dizzy and gone. Red Keegan's practised eye summed up his condition asit had summed up his chances during the past two rounds. And hewhispered:
"Time's come for it, Danny boy! He's too many for you."
Danny boy needed no further amplifying of the order. Twenty times inthe gym, under Keegan's shrewd tutelage, he had rehearsed what now hewas about to do.
Rorke rose sluggishly, groggily, staggeringly, to the summons for thesixth round. He swayed drunkenly towards the centre of the ring.Seeing which, the crowd screeched to Feltman to sail in and finishhim. Obligingly, Feltman prepared to obey the behest of his patrons.He took no chances of a possible trick by laying himself open. But,with all the zest that could include caution, he went for hisworn-down opponent.
Rorke met the onslaught right gamely. He called on all his waningstrength for one last desperate rally. And the crowd did homage to hisgameness by howling approval.
Feltman was a wise man. He knew this false burst of power could notlast. Sooner than waste himself in fighting back he covered and waitedfor the momentary flash to burn out.
But the cheering of the fickle crowd was too much for him. And afteran instant of blocking and retreating he met the pathetically briefrally, foot to foot.
There was a flurrying exchange of close-quarters blows, Rorke spinningabout so that his back was towards the referee. And, as he spun, Rorkescreamed out in mortal agony. His gloved hands flew heavenward, pawingthe air.
He sank to the canvas floor, doubled up like a jack-knife; his handsclutching spasmodically at his abdomen some two or three inches belowthe belt.
Feltman stepped back in astonishment. He had not struck below thebelt. He could not account for Rorke's posture of anguish. But for thefallen man's face both Feltman and the perplexed referee would havebranded the squirming and groaning antics as a pure fake. But therewas nothing fakelike in the face that twitched above the writhingbody. Rorke's swarthy visage had gone green white. It had the ghastlyhue of death.
On the instant Red Keegan was leaning over the ropes, shaking his fistin Feltman's face, and squalling shrilly:
"_Foul!_ Did y'see that, Mister Referee? Y'saw it! Y'couldn't missseeing it! FOUL! Look at the poor lad, will you? He's _dying_!"
The referee, Honest Roy Constantin, lived up to the record that hadgiven him his nickname. Rorke was rolling about the floor in torment.His face was better indorsement of his condition than would have beenfifty doctors' certificates. Only by a foul could such agony have beencaused.
Not alone was Rorke's manager claiming it, but fifty voices from boxesand bleachers were taking up the yell in the wontedly sheeplikefashion of fight fans. Honest Roy himself had been behind Rorke at themoment the blow was struck. But he had seen that Feltman was leadingfor the body. And he could deduce the rest.
While Kid Feltman frothed at the mouth with impotent fury, Honest RoyConstantin thereupon awarded the fight to Rorke--on a flagrant foul.And the whole thing was done on the strength of Rorke's facial aspect.If Constantin had chanced to be an actor instead of a poolroom czar hewould never have been taken in by so simple a trick. For even in thosedays it was a common ruse on the stage.
Dan Rorke, at the outset of the round, had drawn in a deep breath; andhe had held it. This, together with his wild exertions, had turned hiscomplexion to a purple red. Then, suddenly, as he fell, he had relaxedhis muscles and his breath; and had at once taken another breath andhad rolled his eyes upward. The receding blood had left his face achalky green. Long rehearsed acting had done the rest. After thatfirst frenzied glare at the referee he had let his head droop and hadhidden his slowly incarnadining cheeks from further view. The oneglimpse of his corpse-like face was enough for Honest Roy.
"You see, Danny," apologised Keegan, when he had half carried hisprincipal to the dressing room, "it was the only way out. We eithermisjudged that Feltman bird wrong or else we overplayed the bigimprovement you've been making these past few months. One or theother. It don't matter which. The way it lays, you ain't goodenough--not yet--to go up against a top-notcher like him. I seen thatbefore you'd been in the ring two rounds. He was a-eating you up. Itwas either pull the good old foul claim or stand for a knock-out. Ididn't dast give you the office for any funny business. Not withHonest Roy refereeing. He's a crank on square fighting, Roy Constantinis. He'd 'a' spotted any of our best ones. So I had to frame it, otherway round. But it was a close call, at that!"
When Red Keegan picked Dan Rorke out of the night-shift puddler crewat the Pitvale Steel Works he did so after a long psychological study.This study dealt much with the young middleweight's rugged strengthand gameness and his natural skill as a fighter. But it concerneditself equally with Rorke's innate gifts for more subtle things; amongthe rest, a certain crude ability for acting. Then he had moulded theignorant boy according to his own wily plans.
As a man, Keegan was not a marked success. As a crooked diplomatist,he had sparks of genius. Too fragile and too timid to hit a blowhimself, he was a born ring general. And it was his joy and his talentto study out more foul tactics than occur to the normal fighter'sbovine brain in the course of a life-time.
None of these manoeuvres came under the head of "rough stuff" oreven of "coarse work." There was a finesse to them all. They could bepulled--rightly learned by the right man--under the very nose of theaverage referee.
Not once, but six times, had Dan Rorke gone into the ring, coached byKeegan, and bested men who were his superiors. He had done it by asuccession of crafty and murderous fouls, which the referee failed tobring home to him.
Twice, by unobtrusive butting, in the course of a clinch, he hadripened his half-stunned antagonist for an easy knock-out. Again, hehad driven his specially shod heel down on the instep of Spider Boycewith such scientific force as to make the sufferer drop his guard longenough to let in a haymaker to the jaw. Surreptitious kneeing wasanother of his arts.
All these tricks seem broad and obvious in the telling. So would afull description of the method whereby a conjurer hauls a kickingrabbit out of an empty hat. It is all in the way it is done. And,thanks to Red Keegan's tireless rehearsing and to his own peculiartalents, Rorke did it in a way to defy casual detection.
When an overkeen referee happened to be the third man in the ringthere were other tactics to fall back on. In such event and with a tooformidable opponent, there were still divers means for wooingvictory--the claim of foul and the white-faced anguish, for example.Twice before, in other sections of the fight map, had Rorke and Keeganworked this bit of acting.
As a result Dan Rorke was rising fairly fast in his profession. He wasnot of championship timber. He would never develop into such acontender; nor does one real-life fighter in fifty. But he was goodenough to do all manner of things to dozens of fairly good men in therank and file of the middleweight army. And the dollars were driftingin.
To Dan Rorke himself--fresh from the puddling gang, and seeing thefight game only through Red Keegan's gimlet eyes--there was nothingwrong or even doubtful in his own methods. He took his orders fromKeegan; and his share of the cash profits. He did not bother his thickhead about
ethics.
It was a week after the Rorke-Feltman battle, and while Kid Feltmanwas still making the sporting world ring with his cries of trickeryand his clamour for a return match. Rorke and his manager had goneback to their home town of Pitvale; not only for a needed rest, but tolet certain unjust and cruel accusations blow over. Rorke, some monthsearlier, had been installed in the biggest room of the manager'sPitvale bungalow; and had settled thus in the first semblance of ahome he had ever known since his graduation from the orphan asylum,twelve years agone. Behind the bungalow was the rickety barn whichserved as his training quarters.
Dan's old fellow toilers of the Pitvale Steel Works had bet loyally ontheir former associate in his fight with the redoubtable Feltman. Eventhough their paladin had won on a foul, still he had won, and they hadcashed in on their bets. Gratitude welled high in their souls. And ittook a practical form.
On the morning of the eighth day after the match, a delegation of fivepuddlers invaded the Keegan bungalow at breakfast time; escortingamong them a big young collie dog, gold and white in hue, classic inoutline, kingly in bearing.
The pup had belonged to the foreman of the night shift, who was takinga job somewhere out West and could not carry his pet along. So theboys had bought him cheap; and now presented him in due and ancientform to Dan Rorke, as a pledge of their hero worship.
In all his twenty-four years Rorke never before had had a dog of hisvery own. Such luxuries had not been encouraged at the orphan asylum,nor at any of the steel-works boarding houses where he had sincelived.
Now, at sight of the splendid beast, the friendship of a normal manfor a good dog woke within him. In spite of Keegan's sour protests,the pup was installed in the bungalow as a permanent member of thehousehold. In honour of the champion who just then was the idol ofRorke's profession, the newcomer received the historic name of "Jeff."
An instant and perfect liking sprang up between Jeff and hismiddleweight master. From the first the two were inseparable. For somereason best known to himself, the young collie accepted the fighter ashis one and eternal lord; and lavished on him a single-hearteddevotion he had never granted to his former uninterested owner.
To Rorke the dog was a revelation. His starved heart went out to thecollie's staunch friendliness. His sluggish imagination was stirred tounguessed depths by the dog's flashes of cleverness and of gayloyalty. His vanity--and something deeper--was touched to the quickby the deathless worship in his pet's eyes.
If Dan Rorke strayed through the town, for the sake of giving thePitvalians the privilege of gazing on their foremost citizen, Jeff wasalways trotting gravely at his side. If he suppled his hard muscles bya ten-mile hike through woodland and over mountain, the collie'splumed tail was ever just ahead, as pacemaker for the trip.
At meals Jeff stretched himself out on the floor beside Rorke's chair,scorning to beg, but eagerly receptive of such food bits as weretossed to him. At night the dog slept outside Rorke's door, a keenlyalert sentinel over his master's rest.
Once, down on Main Street, a Rorke fan swatted the fighterapplaudingly on the back. In practically the same instant the swatterwas on his own back in the street, with Jeff's teeth menacing him. Thecollie had misunderstood the motive of the blow, and, after the mannerof his kind, had sprung to his demigod's defence.
This sealed once and forever Rorke's love for Jeff. The dog had riskeddire punishment to ward off a fancied danger from him. It waswonderful--tremendous! Dan told of it, for the next six weeks,whenever he could find anyone to listen to his marvellous yarn. And headded so many unconscious details in the repeated telling that latecomers in the succession of listeners were left with a vagueimpression that Jeff had beaten off fully a dozen armed men who hadassailed the fighter.
Keegan used to groan in spirit whenever Dan pointed out Jeff to somechance caller and began the oft-told saga. One dog man earned Rorke'slifelong hatred and the many-adjectived appellation of liar by histactlessness in saying:
"Why, most any good purp will do as much as that; if he thinkssomeone's trying to hurt the feller that owns him."
Dan Rorke was calmly certain that no other dog on earth would have hadthe pluck and the loyalty to do it. And gradually Jeff became to him asort of fetish for everything that was noblest. Which perhaps wasquite as natural as that a high-bred collie should deem Dan Rorkeworthy of adoration.
On a slippery and slushy morning in early spring, some six monthsafter dog and man formed their lifepartnership, Dan started through acorner of Pitvale for his daily hike. He had just won a foul-incrustedbattle and had not yet signed up for another. In the interval beforehard training should set in, he was keeping in shape by means of thesedaily tramps and by a little gym work.
He and Jeff came abreast of Vining's livery stable, and were about toswing past it when out through the open doorway flashed somethingtawny and big and ponderous. In other words, Vining's vile-temperedold mongrel English mastiff had caught scent of the approaching collieand had dashed forth to do battle with the stranger.
That was a cute trick of Vining's dog. He was a terror in theneighbourhood; this huge mastiff with the quarter streak of St.Bernard and the temper of a sick wildcat. And for years he hadmaintained his repute as local bully.
Even now, when age and weight were beginning to slow him down, hestill revelled in the prospect of springing out upon some unwary andless warlike dog as it passed the stable; and doing his industriousbest to kill it.
As it chanced, this was a street seldom used by Rorke. And Jeff andthe mastiff had never before met. Jeff, mincing along on fastidiouswhite toes through the slush, close behind his master, had no warningof the attack. The first hint of danger came when, out of theever-watchful corner of his slanting dark eye, he chanced to see thewhizzing brindled bulk bearing down upon him. There was no time to getout of the way; even had Jeff been of the breed that gets out of theway when peril shows its shining face. To the average dog, there wouldhave been no chance to prepare for the impact. But the best type ofcollie is not an average dog. In his brain, though never in his heart,he harks back to his wolf ancestors.
It was this ancient wolf strain, now, that made the sedately pacingJeff spin sidewise as though on a pivot; letting the mastiff fly pasthim, the flaring jaws missing his head by an inch.
The mastiff whirled, almost in mid-air, and came back to the assault.But as he charged a second time Jeff was not there. The collie had notrun; he had merely side-stepped. And in the same motion his whiteeyetooth scored a deep furrow in the side of the charging foe.
Dan Rorke had swung aloft his walking stick to stop the unequal fightand rescue his chum, for he had heard of the brindled monster'sprowess. But at this move from Jeff he let his striking arm drop,idle, and he sputtered aloud in stark admiration:
"Footwork, b'gee! And countering, too! Lord, but Jim Corbett might 'a'been proud of that stunt!"
Again the mastiff was charging in; lurching craftily, to drive hisnimbler foe into the angle of door and wall, and thus to corner himand render his footwork useless. Jeff saw through the ruse, but he sawtoo late to escape.
Now, the collie was a scant eighteen months old. His chest andshoulders had not yet gained the proportions that would be theirs inanother two years. Moreover, this was his first battle. Left tohimself, he would never have sought trouble; for he was a friendly andfrolicsome youngster who had met with nothing but kindliness in allhis brief life.
But his every muscle and joint was as lithe as oiled whipcord. Therewas not a fleck of loose flesh on his wiry sixty-six-pound body. Andbehind his conscious brain burned not only the battle prowess but theuncanny shrewdness of his ancient vulpine forbears.
Back in the wilderness days, the wolf that could not hold his own inwarfare and be ready for all surprises, was the wolf that diedexceeding young and left no progeny. The wolf that won the right tohave descendants was the wolf brave enough and quick-witted enough totransmit his life-saving traits to those descendants.
All this a thousand years ago;
and Dan Rorke's pet collie wasprofiting by it.
When the mastiff charged him Jeff acted on pure instinct. Having shownhis resentment at the effort to chew him up, he was now quite contentto let the quarrel rest where it was. But apparently this dog mountainwho had attacked him would not have it so. In fact, the mastiff hadcornered him. And the only road to safety was to go through a foenearly twice as big as himself.
This looked like an impossible task, yet Jeff tackled it. His hindquarters were wedged between the open door and the street wall. Infront was the mastiff. The big dog was not charging now. No need towaste speed and rashness on a helplessly cornered victim. Head down,legs crouched, the mastiff crept on his waiting prey. There was ahideous menace in the crawlingly savage advance.
Up went Dan Rorke's stick again. Dan had gripped the weapon by theferrule and he was measuring the distance between its clubbed handleand the giant mongrel's head. But, as before, he did not strike; forthere was no need.
The mastiff gathered himself for a death spring. But Jeff sprangwithout waiting to gather himself. Jeff did not spring aloft, as didthe other. He dived under the rearing forelegs, slashing one of themto the bone as he sped.
The mastiff snapped murderously at his whizzing foe, as Jeff passedunder him. His ravening teeth closed on nothing but a bunch of goldenruff hair instead of reaching their goal in the collie's vertebrae. Andthe mouthful of fur was his sole asset from the encounter.
Roaring aloud with rage and with the pain of his flesh wounds, themongrel bounded out of the corner and made for his escaped victim.Now Jeff had fought his way out of the trap at no worse loss than abunch of neck hair. The whole world lay before him as an avenue ofretreat. No domestic animal but the greyhound can pass a strong youngcollie in a footrace. And assuredly this unwieldy mastiff could neverhave hoped to overhaul him.
But a queer change had come to the friendly youngster during that uglymoment in the corner. He, who had always been on jolly terms witheveryone, had been set upon in unprovoked fashion while he was mindinghis own business. He had been threatened with death; for a less cleverdog than Jeff could not have failed to read red murder in themastiff's bloodshot eyes.
More, a wad of his fur had been yanked out in most painful fashion.And, for the first time in his eighteen pleasant months of life, hotwrath surged up in the collie's friendly heart. This giant was notgoing to treat him so and get away with it scot-free. The battle yellof his wolf ancestors burst from Jeff's furry throat.
As the mastiff turned he faced a wholly different antagonist from theastonished puppy he had set upon in the corner. Ruff abristle, headdown, snowy fangs glinting from under his upwrithing lip, young Jeffflew to meet him like a fluffy catapult. And a truly epochal fight wason.
The mastiff went at his work with veteran ferocity and method, born offifty death fights. But he had run up against something unique in hislong experience. Jeff was not there. Or rather, Jeff was everywhere atonce and nowhere in particular. He was in and out and over and under;never wasting time in seeking for a permanent hold, but nipping,tearing or slashing, and then striking at almost the same instant forsome totally different part of the mongrel's big body.
The mastiff reared and thrashed about, ever striving to pin hiseel-like adversary under him; to crush him down by dint of vastweight; to pinion him while the heavy foam-flecked jaws should findtheir death-hold. But Jeff had an annoying fashion of not staying inany one place long enough to be annihilated. And at every impact hiswhite teeth were leaving their red mark.
"It's--it's Corbett and Sullivan, all over again!" blithered DanRorke, his expert eye following each move, his soul afire withprideful ecstasy at his untried chum's marvellous war genius. "Willyou look at that footwork!" he exhorted high heaven and thefast-gathering knot of spectators.
Then his triumph song became a grunt.
The mastiff, in one of his mad lunges, had found his mark. His jawsclosed on Jeff's furpadded shoulder; and he hung on. With one wrenchof his bull head he bore the slighter dog to earth and began to grindhis jaws into the shoulder he had seized.
For a moment Jeff writhed and flung himself about impotently in thefearsome grip. In that instant of futile heaving his eyes sought andmet Rorke's. And in the flashing gaze there was no tinge of fear or ofappeal. It was as though he tried to assure the man that he had foughthis best and that he was sorry he could do no better.
But before Dan's stick could go up there was a new flurry of fur andflesh, and Jeff's sharp teeth had sunk in agonising style deep intoone of the mongrel's thick pads. The pain was so sudden and acute thatthe mastiff loosed his merciless shoulder grip, to lunge for thecollie's head. And in that brief instant Jeff was not only on his feetand free, but was back at the assault with all his primal zest.
The mastiff, bleeding and almost breathless, reared for anotherattack. His cut hind foot clawed at a film of ice on the slipperypavement. He lost his balance and fell floundering on his back in theslush. For a second he lay there, stunned, for his head had hit theedge of the open door as he fell, and his brindled throat was exposedand defenceless.
"Now's your chance, Jeff!" chortled Rorke deliriously. "_Finish_ him!"
But the collie did not take the chance. As the mongrel tumbledbackward, Jeff had darted in at him. But, when he saw the huge bruteprone and helpless on the ground, the collie for some innatesportsmanly reason forbore to fly at the inviting throat and rip outthe jugular.
Instead, looking down in grave wonder at the sprawling and kickingmastiff, Jeff took a step backward and stood, ears cocked, head on oneside, slender body still braced for action, waiting for the fallen dogto rise.
Dan gasped. Then he swore aloud.
The worn-out mongrel staggered to his feet, all the fight knocked outof him by the stunning head blow and by loss of blood. Jeff dancedforward afresh to the fray. But, tail between legs, the mastiff turnedand limped off into the stable. His back and the slipping hind legsoffered rare chance for the victor to clinch his hard-won conquest.But Jeff only stared in mild interest after his beaten enemy. Then,limping a bit from his shoulder wound and panting fast from his fierceexertions, he trotted over to Dan Rorke and thrust his wet muzzle intohis master's hand as if in quest of sympathy or praise.
He got both.
Fairly crowing with exultation Dan dropped his stick and flung botharms about his scarred pet in a breath-taking bear hug.
"Gee, but you're the real thing, Jeffie!" he carolled, fondling theinordinately happy dog. "Of all the pups that ever happenedyou're--you're that pup! Say"--appealing to the crowd--"did you birdsever see the like of this feller's footwork? Did you? And did you seehow he wouldn't pitch into that big stiff when he was down and out?Some white man, I'll say! Come on home, Jeff! That shoulder of yournwill stand some patching. C'mon, Champ! Gee, but I sure named youafter the right man! There ain't anything double your weight can lay aglove on you!"
Red Keegan pattered home excitedly from a morning visit to the PitvaleHotel. In his hand he was brandishing a telegram that had beenreceived at the hotel telegraph desk while he was there. He made hisway on hurrying feet to the barn back of the bungalow, which servedhis fighters as a gym, and where, at this time of day, Rorke wasreasonably certain to be dawdling with the punching bag.
He came upon Dan, kneeling beside his collie and washing out lovinglya deeply ragged cut in the dog's right shoulder. At sight of themanager Rorke broke forth into a gleeful recital of the bout betweenJeff and the mastiff. But he had scarcely gotten through the firstsentence when Keegan cut him short.
"That c'n wait!" decreed the manager, waving the telegram. "Thiscan't. Listen! I've cinched Feltman, at last. For right here inPitvale. Main bout for the Athaletic Carn'val, next month. Fourthousand dollars! Biggest purse ever! Those carn'val guys don't seemto care how they spend it. And they count on your being a starattraction, here in Pitvale. Remember we figgered they'd do that."
"Uh-huh," assented Rorke, unimpressed. "But say, Red, you'd ought to'a' seen the way Jeff lit into
him, after he'd fought his way out ofthat corner! He----"
"Shut up!" commanded Keegan, with the exquisite courtesy of his kind."Here we're landing the biggest thing we've ever pulled off, and yougo gassing 'bout a measly dog fight! I tell you----"
"Well," retorted Dan, nettled at his manager's tone and still more athis total dearth of appreciation for Jeff, "I don't see as there'sanything to put on a silk shirt for, in the bunch of news you'velugged home with you. When I fought Feltman, back in August, you andBud Curly would 'a' had to carry me out'n the ring, heels forward, ifwe hadn't been able to swing that white-in-the-face claim of foul.I've gone ahead some since then, I know that, but I don't figger I'vegone ahead far enough to stop Kid Feltman. And we can't try the samewhite-face stunt a second time on him. He'll be watching for it. Sowill the ref'ree, whoever he is. You act like you'd brang home a goldmine, Red. Looks to me like you'd carted back a hornets' nest. How'sthe purse going to be split? A lad like Feltman'll want to----"
"Danny," interposed Keegan with weary scorn, "you talk evenfoolisher'n you look. And you look foolisher'n any other man the Lordever bothered to pin a face onto. I told you, a month ago, the way Iwas aiming to work this thing. If you've got more int'rest in howyou're bandaging that cur's shoulder than in the way we're due to makea killing, there's no use going over it all again to you. I remember,last time, you were so busy teaching Jeff to speak for bones that youdidn't more'n half listen to me. And now I s'pose I got to say it allover again."
He sighed. It was the sigh of a martyr. But Dan did not answer. Withworried tenderness he was twining about Jeff's hurt shoulder a festoonof witch-hazel-soaked bandage. With patience--an ostentatious andgrunt-punctuated patience--Keegan waited until the first-aid task wasended and the bandaged collie was curled up at his master's feet. Thenhe spoke.
"Feltman's been after that return fight with us," he began withlaboured detail and as if talking to a mental defective, "till he'sgot so he'd pretty near be willing to get into the ring with youblindfold and with both hands tied behind him. Maybe you know that, ifyou know anything. Which you don't. He's itching to square himself forthat won-on-foul of ours. And I've been letting him itch, till hewouldn't gag on terms. But, at that, it's a miracle we've landed him.Anyone with a grain of sense ought to see through it.
"First, I juggle the carn'val crowd into making him and his managerstand for Sol Kampfmuller as ref'ree. If there's anything Sol knowsless about than ref'reeing a fight I'd like to know what it is. Beingsporting ed'tor of the _Chronicle_ here, he thinks he knows it all,and that what he don't know he suspects. I've seen him ref'ree twofights. Why, that poor Ocity wouldn't know a foul if it was printedout for him on a raised map! Anyone could get by with murder, with himas ref'ree. It's 'most a shame to try the real classy stunts on him.Any raw work'd do.
"Feltman's nearer a top-notcher than ever you'll get to be in fiftyyears, but he's a numbwit. You could hit him with an axe in the ring,before he'd find out he was being fouled. So there's yourcomb'nation--a chucklehead ref'ree and a fair-fighting guy who don'tknow how to watch out for fouls. And then there's you, who I'velearned to be the best lad at slick fouling in the whole business.
"Why, it's too easy! It's a crime. You c'n cripple or dizzy him in thevery first round if you've a mind to. And as often after that as youneed. Then, keep remembering that four-thousand-dollar purse, witheighty per cent for the winner. And even a minus-brain like yoursought to be able to figger out the answer. We'll start you training,to-morrow. I've a couple of corking new ones I've worked out lately.One of 'em's a killer. And both of 'em smooth enough to get past mostany ref'ree, let alone Sol Kampfmuller and that carn'val crowd. We'llwork 'em out and brush up on a few of the old ones too. So----"
"Funny thing!" spoke up Rorke, his hand on the dog's head. "Funnythink 'bout Jeffie, here! He had a dandy chance to rip the throat outof that Vining dog; and he wouldn't do it, just because the dog wasdown and couldn't help himself! What d'you think of that, Red? Justbecause the other dog was down. No ref'ree to penalise him forfouling, either. He just stepped back, kind of polite like, and----"
"For the love of Mike!" groaned the irate manager, "will you stopjawing about that bum cur and----"
"Then," pursued Rorke serenely, "when Vining's dog turned tail andsneaked away, Jeff had the chance of his life to tear in and do allsorts of damage. But he didn't. Wouldn't fight foul--the grand littlecuss!"
Rorke fell silent. The manager stared at him in lofty and wordlesscontempt, but Dan did not see him. Still patting Jeff's head aimlesslyand brooding over the couchant dog with puckered half-shut eyes, hesat there. Dan Rorke was thinking; and thought, to him, was asdifficult as it was rare. Presently he spoke again--in a rumbling,ruminating mutter.
"Wouldn't fight foul, Jeff wouldn't," he repeated. "Fought like abearcat, so long as the scrap was even. But not a foul stunt fromfirst to last. Wouldn't win on a foul. He couldn't tell but what thatbig mutt would get up and tear him in half, like he'd just come plentyclose to doing. But Jeff wouldn't tackle him while he was down.Wouldn't----"
"Say!" put in Keegan. "I'm going to the house to write a letter andthen send off a wire. Keep right on talking, please, all the while I'mgone. Keep on telling about that dog fight. Then, by the time I getback, maybe the most of it will have got out'n your system and youcan think of real things again. So long."
Dan Rorke did not obey his manager's elephantinely sarcastic requestto go on talking of the dog fight in Keegan's half-hour absence. Buthe did the next thing--he went on thinking about it. At least hiswontedly sluggish thoughts fixed themselves on one detail of the fray,clinging to it like leeches and sending forth ramifications into thefar and unused recesses of his brain.
These thoughts were not put into words. But their gist may betranslated roughly into English, somewhat as follows:
Jeff had fought without training or precept. He had followed his owninstincts. He had fought according to his nature. Thus, he had foughtfair. He had fought clean. Not only had he disdained to make use ofany crooked advantage, but he had risked defeat and possible deathsooner than to foul.
Jeff was a dog.
Dan Rorke was a man.
How did Dan Rorke win his fights? Three out of four of them he won byclever fouling. He fought crooked. That was how he made his living--bytactics his own dog would not stoop to.
The collie looked on Dan as the greatest person under the sun. Yet thedog fought square and Dan fought foul. What was the answer?
It was a joke in fistic circles that Dan Rorke was the dirtiestfighter in that section of America; and that he managed to get awaywith it by sheer craftiness.
Dan had felt--still felt--a thrill of admiration for Jeff for fightingso fair. Wasn't it possible that the fight public might give that samesort of admiration to a man who was known to fight fair? Going atottering mental step farther, wasn't it just barely possible that allreg'lar folks had that same little thrill of admiration for a fellowwho was on the level in everything? It was a funny idea, of course,but----
Then again it was great to have someone, even a dog, look up toanybody as Jeff looked up to his master; and to think that master wasthe best man alive. What sort of mangy hypocrite was Dan Rorke to makehis living crookedly, by super-fouling, while Jeff thought he was asaint?
The dog fought clean. The man fought dirty. Was the man lower than thedog? It was a rotten thought. But it had a whole lot of sense to it.If Jeff, here, could risk death sooner than fight foul, what was thereason why Dan Rorke----
At this point in the argument Dan stopped and started all over, fromthe beginning. He was on the third complete review of it when RedKeegan came bustling back.
"Well," queried the manager briskly, "have you told yourself enoughabout the dog fight, so's you c'n remember it a while without tellingit again?"
"I--I guess so," mumbled Dan uncertainly.
And he made excuse to get out of the way. He was still thinking;thinking hard and with a growing unhappiness. His thoughts were notye
t crystallisable into words.
But next morning, after a night of less continuous slumber than hecould recall in many a year, he dressed and started down to breakfastwith a brand-new and granite-hard resolve in his tired mind. For oncein his life he had solved a problem--had solved it all himself.
As he opened the door of his bedroom Jeff leaped eagerly up from hisnightly vigil post across the outer threshold. Stiff as he was fromhis shoulder hurt, the dog gambolled gleefully round his master,patting at Dan's knees with his flying white paws, wriggling himselfinto an ecstatic interrogation mark, and whimpering with delight atthe wonderful fact that his adored demigod was once more with himafter ten whole hours of absence.
Thus, the world over, do the average run of collies give morningsalute to the man or woman they have accepted as their deity. And, asever, the greeting warmed Dan Rorke's long-loveless heart. He stoopedover and patted the silken head.
The collie growled in horrific menace and caught Dan's big handbetween his mighty jaws as if to crush it. But the jaws did not exertthe pressure of a fraction of an ounce on the firm flesh they had soplayfully imprisoned. And the throaty growls were belied by a furiouswagging of the plumed tail.
This was Jeff's favourite game with his master. With no one else wouldhe deign to play.
Dan rumpled the dog's soft ears, and looked with a queer new timidityinto the deep-set dark eyes of his chum. At the unquestioning joyousdevotion he saw there, he felt a tiny twinge of relief. Something hehad let himself fear, in the long night's meditations, had not yetbegun to happen. There was still time, plenty of time.
And, his resolve firmer than ever, he ran down to the breakfast room,where Red Keegan was already seating himself at the table.
"_Chron'cle's_ got a spread on your match with Feltman!" was themanager's morning salutation. "First page; and again, underKampfmuller's sign'ture, on the sporting page. We've got a good start,all right. Now----"
"If it isn't too late," said Dan hesitantly, "I kind of wish you'dcancel the match. I don't honest think I c'n stop Kid Feltman; for allyou say I've gone ahead this half year. And it's more'n an even bet hec'n stop me inside the limit. So I've been thinking it over, and Iguess you'd best call it off; or get 'em to subst'toot some easier guythan Felt----"
"Good Lord!" snorted Keegan. "Do you set there and tell me you don'teven remember from yesterday the layout for that fight? Of allthe----"
"Yep," answered Rorke, sullenly playing with his food and glancingdown for encouragement at the collie lying on the floor beside him."Yep. I remember it all right, all right, Red. I remember it. But itwon't work. That's why I----"
"Won't _work_?" thundered Keegan, glaring across at his embarrassedstar. "Why the blue hell won't it work? It's the prettiest set-upwe've ever handled. There ain't a flaw to it. Won't work, hey? Whythe----"
"Because," replied Dan sheepishly, yet firm as stone, as he gloweredback at his manager, "because that set-up of yours calls for a heap offancy fouling. And--and I'm--I'm off fouling. Off it for keeps.That's----"
Red Keegan broke in on the halting announcement with a sound that aturkey might have produced had its tail feathers been pulled violentlyat the moment it chanced to be gobbling. The result was a noise thatbrought Jeff to his feet with a jump; his tulip ears cocked, his eyesaglow with excited inquiry; a series of staccato barks racketing fromhis furry throat.
"Lay down, Jeffie!" ordered Dan. "He ain't going to bite me. He'sonly----"
"Are you plumb crazy, Dan?" sputtered the manager. "Or is it a bumlittle joke? Off fouling, hey? What's going to keep you from thehungry house if----"
"If clean scrapping won't keep me fed," answered Rorke, "I'll go getback my job in the puddling gang. Anyhow, it goes like I said. I'm offfouling. Now go ahead and swear!"
But Red Keegan did not go ahead and swear. Profanity was a verypresent help to the nerves, in the event of stepping on a tack ormashing one's thumb with a hammer or on hearing that one's wife hadeloped. But this matter lay too deep for swearing.
Blusteringly, then flatteringly, then coaxingly and at last with thetremolo stop pulled far out, he pleaded with Dan. He painted inglowing colours the middleweight's comfortable rise from the ranks andthe golden future that awaited him under Keegan's guidance, if only hewould have the intelligence to stick to his manager's tuition and notget fool ideas that he could fight on the square well enough to keephimself warm. He foretold a future of failure and gutter povertyshould the fool hold to this suicidal new plan.
To all of which Dan Rorke answered not a word; but sat glumly frowningat the spotty tablecloth and occasionally letting his fidgety handrest for a second on Jeff's head. When at last Keegan had run down andwas bereft equally of breath and vocabulary and emotion, Dan began tospeak. He did not look at the puffingly apoplectic manager, butrambled on as if addressing the hole in his napkin.
"A feller told me once," he began, "that there's mighty little acollie dog don't know. And I've seen enough of Jeff, here, to find outthat's so. Jeff c'n tell when I'm blue and when I'm tickled, just bylooking at me. It--it'd be funny, wouldn't it, if he c'd get totelling, by looking at me, that I'm not on the square? A dog withJeff's breeding and Jeff's sense would sure be too high-toned to palwith a crook, if he knowed it. And he knows a lot of things I'd nevers'posed a animal c'd know."
He looked down again at the collie as if for moral support. At theworry in his master's glance, Jeff's dark eyes took on a glint ofeager concern. He laid one white little forepaw on Dan's muddy boot,and whined softly, far down in his throat. Thus encouraged, Rorke wenton:
"That's only one end of it. Here's another: A man's pretty low down inthe list, ain't he, if he can't even fight as square as his dog c'nfight? A clean dog's sure got a right to a clean master. Them folksyesterday was all praising Jeff. They wasn't praising him so much forlicking the big feller as for licking him, _clean_; and for notfouling when he had a chance to. I c'd see that myself. Well, I sh'dthink folks would feel that way about a man that fights clean.Anyhow," he finished defiantly, "no poor dog's going to have the rightto say he's a whiter man than what I am. I been thinking it all over.And that's the answer. I'm off fouling. Like I said."
For the next twenty-four hours the bungalow and the gym were vibrantwith the sounds of argument and vituperation. Keegan exhausted hisevery battery. And--like most men who think slowly and seldom--DanRorke grew more and more firmly set in his queer resolution, the morehe discussed it.
Even stolid Bud Curly, his sparring partner and general handy manround the gym, was moved to bewilderment by the once-docile fighter'sfirmness in resisting the all-powerful boss.
Only once, in a day and night of abusive exhortation on Red's part,did Dan lose for an instant his sullen calm. That was when Keegangrumbled:
"It's all the damn' dog's fault. It's him that's turned you loony.I've got a good mind to shoot him. Then maybe you'll----"
"You shoot that dog," flared Rorke, striding up to the little manager,his thick fingers working convulsively, "and, by the good Lord, Iswear I'll break your neck over my knee; if I go to the chair for it.That goes for _you_, too, Curly! If you think I'm bluffing, you'd bestchange your mind--unless you're sick of staying alive. It goes!"
To Bud Curly's surprise the irascible Red did not retort. Instead, hestood looking long and earnestly at the raging fighter. Then he saidwith conciliatory calm:
"Nobody wants to hurt the purp, Dan. Climb down off the ceiling. Andif you're so dead set on playing the fool--well, I s'pose I'll have totrail my bets along with yours. You can't lick Feltman on the square.But it won't be my fault if you don't put up the best fight of yourlife ag'in him. It's too late to cancel the match now. All me andCurly c'n do is to train you to the minute and trust to luck for therest."
Glad to have won his sorry point, Dan settled down with grim energyto the task of training. He knew how slight were his chances ofvictory. Yet he was ready to meet the suddenly reconciled Keeganhalfway, by training at his level best.
Feltman
and a little retinue came to Pitvale, in order to be on theground, and to avoid travel before the fight. They set up trainingquarters scarce two blocks away from Keegan's bungalow.
For nearly a month the two rivals wrought at their preparations forthe battle. Once or twice on hike or sprint they chanced to meet instreet or highroad. And such well-rehearsed chance meetings, withtheir mutual scowling frigidity, served Kampfmuller as splendid"grudge-fight" copy for the _Chronicle_.
The fight was to be held in the Pitvale Coliseum, a vast and barnlikestructure originally built for state conventions and for summerChautauqua lectures. It was scheduled for ten o'clock on the night ofApril second.
On the morning of April second Dan Rorke awoke from a ten-hour sleep,ran under the shower, rubbed down, slipped into his clothes, andstarted for breakfast with the appetite of a longshoreman. His nervesas well as his physique had profited by his hard and wise training.
If he was due to end the day in defeat, at least the thought of ithad not marred his night's rest or his appetite.
Outside his bedroom door he paused as usual for his morning frolicwith Jeff. But Jeff was not there.
In all their long months of chumship this was the first morning thatJeff had not been on hand to greet with noisy delight his new-awakenedmaster. And the dog's absence perplexed Rorke.
Downstairs he went, hoping to find the collie waiting for him in thedining-room. The room was empty. Whistling for the missing Jeff, Danwent out on the tiny front porch. No dog was in view. But he sawKeegan and Bud working with scrambly haste at a far end of the yard,piling shovelfuls of fresh dirt into what looked like a new-dug holeunder the yard's one fruit tree.
Before Dan could call out, Curly happened to look up from his toil;and caught sight of him as he stood on the porch steps. Curly nudgedKeegan and said something out of the corner of his mouth. The twoexchanged nervous whispers; then Red dropped his spade and camehurrying towards the house, a labouredly artificial smile of greetingon his bothered face.
"Seen Jeff, anywhere?" asked Rorke, his puzzled eyes still on Curly,who was now patting the crumbly earth smooth over the filledexcavation.
"Sure, I've seen him!" babbled Keegan with forced joviality, andlooking anywhere rather than at Dan. "He was frisking round here justa minute ago. Must 'a' run down street, a ways. He'll be back soon.Come on in and eat! Sleep all right? I wasn't expecting you down foranother ten minutes."
He had mounted the steps and almost forcibly was propelling Danindoors.
"Looking for Jeff?" hollowly queried Bud Curly, coming up the stepsbehind him. "He's all right. Good old Jeff's all right. He was playinground in the gym just now."
Dan Rorke was the least subtle of men; and his brain was too small tohold suspicion. But a five-year-old child would have been keenly awareof the guilt and furtiveness in the manner of the two. Dan stoppedshort. He looked from one to the other of them; then at the freshearth under the fruit tree.
"Red, you told me Jeff went down street!" he accused. "And now Budsays he's out in the gym. Which of you is lying? And why is either ofyou lying? And what were you burying out there? Speak up, one of you;or I'll go there and dig till I find out!"
He spoke with rising excitement. As he finished he made as if tostart across the yard towards the tree. Both men seized him and bothbegan speaking at once.
"Jeff's all right!" insisted Red. "And we was just spading up theearth to make that tree grow better. It's too spindly. And----"
"Yes," declared Bud in the same breath, "Jeff's feeling fine. He'll beback pres'n'ly. We was trying to see could we bury some garbage outyonder, 'stead of bothering to burn it. We----"
"Jeff is dead!" interrupted Dan, his voice all at once lifeless andflat. "You been burying him. You don't want me to know. He----"
The two others fidgeted guiltily. Then, clearing his throat, Keegansaid:
"I wanted to keep it from you, till after to-night, Danny. I'm sorry.Sorry, right down to the ground. But since you've guessed that much ofit I'd best tell you the whole thing. Buck up and take it like ahe-man, son. After all, he was only just a dog. I'll buy you anotherone and----"
"There ain't any other one!" denied Rorke chokingly. "There was onlyjust Jeff! Him and me. And he was the chum I-- What happened to him?"he demanded fiercely, swallowing very hard and trying to keep hisvoice steady and his eyes dry. "Spill it!"
"Then take it!" cried Keegan harshly. "Take it straight, like ahe-man had ought to take rotten news. This morning, when I went apastyour door, there lay Jeff. He was stone-dead. I picked him up andbrang him down on the porch. I knowed how it'd queer your nerve tofind out he was gone. So I aimed to bury him and tell you he'd juststrayed off, like; and that he would come home by and by. When I gothim out on the porch I noticed he was all strained backward. And I'dseen dogs poisoned by strychnia before. There ain't any other poisonthat makes 'em look that way. He----"
"Poisoned!" yelled Dan in blind fury, catching at the word. "I'll findthe swine that did it, if it takes every cent I got. And when I onceget hold of him----"
"I beat you to it, Danny," continued Red's sorrowing tones. "I gotCurly, here, to start digging a grave; and I piked down to Reuter'sdrug store. I had a sneaking s'spicion, already. Reuter was justopening up for the day when I got there. I asked him who had boughtstrychnia of him lately. The only strychnia he's sold in the past weekwas what he sold to a man yesterday; a feller who had a doctor'sp'scription for it, and said he wanted it to poison cats that kep' himawake by yowling under his window. He got Reuter to tell him how tofix it up in a piece of meat----"
"Who was he?" broke in Rorke, his eyeteeth showing, his deep voice ahalf-coherent growl. "Who----"
"The doctor that gave the man the p'scription," said Keegan slowly,"was that old down-and-out M. D. slob that Feltman has for a handyman. The feller that bought the poison and asked Reuter how to fix itwas--Kid Feltman. He----"
The manager got no further. Dan Rorke was out of the door and down thesteps at one bound. It was only as he stopped to yank madly at thegate latch that Red and Curly overtook him and threw themselves bodilyon the raging man. Even then it was a matter of minutes before theircombined strength and Bud's wrestling grip, from behind, could quellhim.
"Let me go!" he snarled, straining and biting at the detaining arms."I'll settle with him before Jeff's cold! I'll----"
"You'll settle with him a heap better'n by trying to beat him up now,with his handlers and them to keep you from doing it," promisedKeegan. "There's better ways. Lots better ways. You listen to me,Danny boy!"
Momentarily spent with his own fury, Rorke suffered himself to bedragged indoors. There Keegan faced him and said:
"You want to square yourself with Feltman--and more'n square yourself?Good. Then here's the way: Feltman's always hated you, ever since helost to you that time. He's told fifty folks he'd get even. He's seen,and he's heard, how much store you set by Jeff. So he poisoned him toget back at you. Now here's how you'll get back at _him_: You wasgoing to fight him clean. And he'd 'a' most likely won. So that ain'tthe way to fight him, if you want to settle with him for poor Jeff.The way to do is to sail in with every foul that can git pastKampfmuller. And a hay load of 'em c'n git past that ivory mine. Foulhim from the start, with the murderingest set of fouls I've everlearned you. Cripple him so he'll be in the hosp'tal a year. Foul himinto a dead one; and then punch his head off'n him and win as early inthe fight as you want to. Git the idee? Foul him to death if you like.It's no worse'n he treated Jeff. The ring's the place to finish him.Not now, where you'd likely land up in the hoosgow before you'd more'nhalf hit him. Go to it!"
Dan grunted avid assent. And after breakfast careful rehearsing of oldfoul tactics and a study of new ones began.
As Dan Rorke, stripped and eager, sat in his hot dressing room underthe auditorium that night, waiting for the summons to enter the ring,he had his first minute of solitary reflection throughout the wholeKeegan-infested day. His manager was upstairs, wrangling with thecarnival treasurer.
Curly had gone to the ring to watch the wind-up ofthe second preliminary bout.
Dan was alone. In his heart still raged black hate and a craving forrevenge. And he was sick with grief over his chum's murder.
While he sat there, the faint challenge bark of a dog--a collie,perhaps--from nowhere in particular, drifted to him through theill-boarded dressing-room walls. At the sound Dan started violently.
"_Jeff?_" he whispered under his breath.
As if in answer to his call, the room all at once seemed athrob withthe presence of his loved dog. In superstitious awe Dan peered abouthim. Then he straightened his bent body. And to an unseen Something hebegan to speak.
"We're going to pay up the bill in a few minutes now, Jeffie!" hepromised. "Watch me!"
The foolish words started a new train of thoughts in the tormentedbrain. Watch him? The clean-fighting dog watch his master put up thefoulest fight of his career? With the vision came sharp revulsion.
"Watch me, Jeff!" he repeated aloud. "Watch me do it! Watch me do it,square! _Square_, Jeffie, boy!"
While the odd exaltation was still upon him Keegan and Curly cameback to the dressing room to escort him to the arena.
The Pitvale Athletic Carnival crowd that night witnessed the bloodiestand most spectacularly ferocious battle in the annals of the localring.
From the sound of the gong Dan Rorke was at his antagonist, forcingthe fight at every point. Never once for the fraction of a second didhe abandon the aggressive. Feltman showered upon him an avalanche ofscientific punishment. But it failed to slow down that homicidalattack.
To Red Keegan's goggle-eyed dismay and despite his dumfoundedinter-round pleas, Rorke fought as clean as a Galahad. Not once wouldhe make use of even the safest foul. Not once would he seek to eludethe dull referee by using the easiest of Keegan's carefully taughtruses.
He fought like a wild beast, but he fought like a fair one. Buoyed upby his insane hate for his enemy and by his stark craving forvengeance, he was as a man in delirium. The hideous punishment metedout to him had no visible effect on his maniac strength or speed. Hismadness did not preclude the use of all the skill he could muster, butit made him impervious to pain and to shock.
Round after round the fight slashed on, while the crowd screamed andpounded in delight and while Red Keegan and Curly watched their madmanwith anguished eyes. Willing to take the heaviest blow, if only hemight land as heavy a smash in return, Dan tore away at his foe.
Four times he was knocked down. Once he was unconscious for fiveseconds. But borne ever onward by that wild urge of revenge he cameflying back to the combat with undiminished fury.
Flesh and blood could not stand the fearful tax indefinitely. Throughall his mania Rorke began dimly to realise that there was a trifleless crushing vehemence in his own punches and less whirlwind speed inhis onslaught. With every atom of will and of rage and of resolve inhis whole cosmos, he scourged himself to renewed effort. The welter ofblows avalanched upon him, unfelt.
Over and over in his hot brain he was saying:
"Watch me do it, Jeff! Watch me do it, _square_!"
And he fought on.
As Dan reeled back to his corner at the end of the hammer-and-tongsninth round he heard, as from miles off, Keegan's voice whispering tohim:
"Try out the good old stunts, Danny! 'Tain't too late, even yet. He'sgroggy. Try 'em. Curly tells me he's making a joke of how he killedJeff. Says he kicked the poor purp yesterday, too, when he met him inthe street. He----"
Dan heard no more. The minute's rest was over almost before it began.His ears ringing with the tale of the kick, he plunged back into thefight.
Feltman met him in midring; a horribly battered and staggeringFeltman, who sought to improve on his minute's rest by feinting withthe left and then aiming a great right swing for the head.
The swing did not land. Disregarding the feint, Rorke had bored in.The swing passed beyond him, while his two fists were greedily busywith infighting at his tired adversary's body. Across the ring and tothe ropes, with all his ebbing force, he hammered Feltman. Against theropes he drove him. Then, as Feltman rebounded from the impact, Danflung every remaining sinew of strength into a cross-body right forthe jaw.
It was a reckless blow, except as a counter. And Feltman saw it comingin time. But his worn-out guard would not obey the dazed brain'smandate quickly enough to block the mighty punch. Rorke's rage-drivenright fist caught his opponent flush on the point of the chin. AndFeltman sprawled prone on his face.
Quietly, non-dramatically, he lay there, dead to the world while thereferee counted. At the count of eight Feltman tried instinctively toget up. But he succeeded only in rolling over on his back.
Cut to ribbons, bleeding, bruised, aching and all but blinded, DanRorke suffered the exultant Keegan and Bud to guide him down to hisdressing room. He had won. He had thrashed the man who had poisonedJeff. This much his dizzy senses told him.
But Feltman was still alive. And Jeff was dead. Dan's heart was likecold lead beneath his bruised ribs. His sensational victory was asashes and dust to him. He was deaf to Keegan's hysterical adulation.Nothing mattered.
Bud Curly swung open the dressing-room door. Over the threshold swepta whirlwind of gold and white, barking rapturously and flinging itselfupon Rorke's bleeding chest.
(Long afterwards Dan listened with a foolish grin on his swollen facewhile Keegan confessed the truly Keeganesque trick whereby he hadsought to lure back his man to an acceptance of the sure-to-win foultactics; of the hiding of Jeff in a neighbour's cellar for the day;and the spiriting of him into the dressing room after the fightbegan; of the coaching of Curly into indorsing the tale of poison andof Bud's part in the mock grave digging,--a digging timed nicely tocoincide with Dan's appearance on the porch.)
All this, much later. But, for the instant, the only thing Dan Rorkeknew was that his dead pet--or its ghost, it did not matter which--hadcome back to him; and that everything was once more tremendously worthwhile and that the world was a gorgeous place to do one's living in.
Forgetful of hurts and of weakness, he gathered the ecstaticallysquirming collie into his battered bare arms and babbled sobbingly:
"I did it, square, Jeff. I did it, square! You--you _saw_ me do it,SQUARE."
Buff: A Collie, and Other Dog-Stories Page 9