ate
in which he had been placed at the New Washington Hotel in Seattle. Never
once had he been out of the crate during the entire journey, and
filthiness, as well as wretchedness, characterized his condition. Thanks
to his general good health, the wound of the amputated toe was in the
process of uneventful healing. But dirt clung to him, and he was
infested with fleas.

Cedarwild, to look at, was anything save a hell. Velvet lawns, gravelled
walks and drives, and flowers formally growing, led up to the group of
long low buildings, some of frame and some of concrete. But Michael was
not received by Harris Collins, who, at the moment, sat in his private
office, Harry Del Mar's last telegram on his desk, writing a memorandum
to his secretary to query the railroad and the express companies for the
whereabouts of a dog, crated and shipped by one, Harry Del Mar, from
Seattle and consigned to Cedarwild. It was a pallid-eyed youth of
eighteen in overalls who received Michael, receipted for him to the
expressman, and carried his crate into a slope-floored concrete room that
smelled offensively and chemically clean.

Michael was impressed by his surroundings but not attracted by the youth,
who rolled up his sleeves and encased himself in large oilskin apron
before he opened the crate. Michael sprang out and staggered about on
legs which had not walked for days. This particular two-legged god was
uninteresting. He was as cold as the concrete floor, as methodical as a
machine; and in such fashion he went about the washing, scrubbing, and
disinfecting of Michael. For Harris Collins was scientific and
antiseptic to the last word in his handling of animals, and Michael was
scientifically made clean, without deliberate harshness, but without any
slightest hint of gentleness or consideration.

Naturally, he did not understand. On top of all he had already
experienced, not even knowing executioners and execution chambers, for
all he knew this bare room of cement and chemical smell might well be the
place of the ultimate life-disaster and this youth the god who was to
send him into the dark which had engulfed all he had known and loved.
What Michael did know beyond the shadow of any doubt was that it was all
coldly ominous and terribly strange. He endured the hand of the youth-
god on the scruff of his neck, after the collar had been unbuckled; but
when the hose was turned on him, he resented and resisted. The youth,
merel