Whitely a
square of it peered downwards; melancholy upon the sward lay the lid
of corduroy that should have warmed the space. For ten paces outwards
from the tree-trunk there stretched a pitted path. Abiram, as George
came, turned at this path's extremity; set his sloe eye upon the dull
white patch in Mr. Fletcher's stern; hurled forward up the track;
sprang and snapped jaws an inch below the mark as Mr. Fletcher
mightily heaved.
A lesser dog would have yapped bafflement, fruitlessly scratched
upwards from hind legs. Abiram was perfect dog of the one breed of dog
that is in all things perfect. Silently he plodded back; turned; ran;
leapt again. Again Mr. Fletcher heaved, and again the fine jaws
snapped an inch beneath the pallid square of flesh.
As once more uncomplaining he turned, Abiram sighted George; ruffled.
George spoke his name. Abiram wagged that short tail that marked his
Champion Victor Wild blood, shook the skull that spoke to the same
mighty strain.
This dog expected in his human friends that same devotion to duty
which is the governing trait of his breed. His shake implied, "No time
for social niceties, sir. I have a job in hand."
"Call 'im off, Mr. George," Mr. Fletcher implored. "Call 'im--_ur!_"--
he heaved upward as Abiram again sprang--"off," he concluded, sinking
once more as the bull-terrier trotted up the little path.
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