precariously rewarded labor with the stubborn, inimical
forces of nature, with swamp and rock and
thicket. Two hundred dollars! It was the price
of a roof, of health, of life itself.

A hard palm swung upon the dog's ribs, and, in
instant response, he fell upon his side. He rose
more slowly; stood isolated, obviously troubled.
He drew back stumbling from a menacing gesture;
but there was no cringing visible in his immature, ill-proportioned
body; his tail drooped, but from weariness,
discouragement; his head was level; his eyes
met the circle of eyes about him.

Gordon took no part in the baiting; he lit a cigar,
snapped the match over his shoulder, carelessly
watched his newest acquisition. A heavy, wooden-soled
shoe shoved the dog forward. And Buckley
Simmons, in an obvious improvement upon that
maneuver, kicked the animal behind the ear. The
forelegs rose with the impact of the blow, and the
body struck full length upon the platform, where it
lay dazed. But, finally, the dog got up insecurely,
wabbling; a dark blot spread slowly across the
straw-colored head.

No one, it was evident, was prepared for the sudden
knifelike menace of Gordon Makimmon's voice
as he bent over the dog and wiped the blood upon
his sleeve.

[[158]]

p157 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p158w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p159

v?