uch searching examination, but
Daughtry, in the midst of feeling out the lines and build of the thighs
and hocks, paused and took Michael's tail in his magic fingers, exploring
the muscles among which it rooted, pressing and prodding the adjacent
spinal column from which it sprang, and twisting it about in a most
daringly intimate way. And Michael was in an ecstasy, bracing his
hindquarters to one side or the other against the caressing fingers. With
open hands laid along his sides and partly under him, the man suddenly
lifted him from the ground. But before he could feel alarm he was back
on the ground again.

"Twenty-six or -seven--you're over twenty-five right now, I'll bet you on
it, shillings to ha'pennies, and you'll make thirty when you get your
full weight," Dag Daughtry told him. "But what of it? Lots of the
judges fancy the thirty-mark. An' you could always train off a few
ounces. You're all dog n' all correct conformation. You've got the
racing build and the fighting weight, an' there ain't no feathers on your
legs."

"No, sir, Mr. Dog, your weight's to the good, and that ear can be ironed
out by any respectable dog--doctor. I bet there's a hundred men in
Sydney right now that would fork over twenty quid for the right of
calling you his."

And then, just that Michael should not make the mistake of thinking he
was being much made over, Daughtry leaned back, relighted his pipe, and
apparently forgot his existence. Instead of bidding for good will, he
was bent on making Michael do the bidding.

And Michael did, bumping his flanks against Daughtry's knee; nudging his
head against Daughtry's hand, in solicitation for more of the blissful
ear-rubbing and tail-twisting. Daughtry caught him by the jowl instead
and slowly moved his head back and forth as he addressed him:

"What man's dog are you? Maybe you're a nigger's dog, an' that ain't
right. Maybe some nigger's stole you, an' that'd be awful. Think of the
cruel fates that sometimes happens to dogs. It's a damn shame. No white
man's stand for a nigger ownin' the likes of you, an' here's one white
man that ain't goin' to stand for it. The idea! A nigger ownin' you an'
not knowin' how to train you. Of course a nigger stole you. If I laid
eyes on him right now I'd up and knock seven bells and the Saint Paul
chimes out of 'm. Sure thing I would. Just show 'm to me, that's all,
an' see what I'd do to him. The idea of you takin' orders from