Caesar crept whining
and shivering to the side of the road.
Slowly the man's arm fell to his side, still caught in that quivering
grasp. He spoke in a voice that struggled boyishly between resentment and
shame. "The dog's my own."
Her hold relaxed. "Even a dog has his rights," she said. "Give me that
whip, please!"
He looked at her oddly in the growing darkness. She was trembling as she
stood, but she held her ground.
"Please!" she repeated with resolution.
With an abrupt movement he put the weapon into her hand. "Are you going
to give me a taste?" he asked.
She uttered a queer little gasping laugh. "No. I--I'm not that sort.
But--it's horrible to see a man lose control of himself. And to thrash a
dog--like that!"
She turned sharply from him and went to the Dalmatian who crouched
quaking on the path. He wagged an ingratiating tail at her approach. It
was evident that in her hand the whip had no terrors for him. He crept
fawning to her feet.
She stooped over him, fondling his head. "Oh, poor boy! Poor boy!" she
said.
The dog's master came and stood beside her. "He'll be all right," he
said, in a tone of half-surly apology.
"I'm afraid Mike has bitten him," she said. "See!" displaying a long,
dark streak on Caesar's neck.
"He'll be all right," repeated Caesar's master. "I hope your dog is none
the worse.
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