n Regina that his height, his fleetness, and
his shaggy black and iron-gray coat were anything but typical of the
bloodhound.

With one exception every man in the R.N.W.M.P. headquarters was proud
of Jan. Even the different barracks dogs were conscious of some great
addition to the big hound's prestige. The senior officers of the corps
went out of their way to praise and pet Jan, and Captain Arnutt had a
light steel collar made for him, with a shining plated surface, a lock
and key, and an inscription reading thus:

Jan, of the Royal North-west Mounted Police, Regina.

But Jan's triumph earned him the mortal hatred of one man, and the
deference shown to him in barracks added bitterness to the jealous
antipathy already inspired by him in the hard old heart of Sourdough.
Sergeant Moore said nothing, but hate glowed in his somber eyes whenever
they lighted upon Jan's massive form.

"I believe he'd stick a knife in Jan, if he dared," said French, the man
of Devon. "You take my tip, Dick, and keep Jan well out of the
sergeant's way. The man's half crazed. His old Sourdough is all he's got
in the world for chick or child, and he'll never forgive your dog for
doing what Sourdough couldn't do."

"Oh, well," said Dick, with a tolerant smile, "I think he's too much of
a man to try and injure a good dog."

"An' that's precisely where you get left right away back," said
O'Malley. "I tell ye that blessed sergeant wouldn't think twice about
giving Jan a dose of poison if he thought he could get away with the
goods. And if he can teach Sourdough to kill Jan, I reckon he'd sooner
have that than a commission any day in the week. Man, you should watch
his face when he sees the dog. There's murder in it."

It was a fact that the praises showered upon Jan, the publicity given to
his doings, and, above all, the respect shown for the big hound within
R.N.W.M.P. circles, were the cause of real wretchedness to Sergeant
Moore. When a man who is well on in middle life becomes so thoroughly
isolated from friendly human influences as Sergeant Moore was, his mind
and his emotions are apt to take queer twists and turns, his judgment to
become strangely warped, his vision and sense of proportion to assume
the highly misleading characteristics of convex and concave mirrors,
which distort outrageously everything they reflect.

Sourdough, like his master, was dour, morose, forbidding, and a
confirmed solitary. He was also a singularly ugly