assed,
and the clerk, already rehearsing in his mind the honors which should
follow the brave stroke, raised the tines above the little dog's head
for the coup de grace. They did not descend, and the daring youth
failed of fame as the laurel almost embraced his brows. A hickory
walking-stick was thrust between his legs; and he, expecting to strike,
received a blow upon the temple sufficient for his present undoing and
bedazzlement. He went over backwards, and the pitchfork (not the thing
to hold poised on high when one is knocked down) fell with the force he
had intended for Respectability upon his own shin.

A train had pulled into the station, and a tired, travel-worn young
man, descending from a sleeper, walked rapidly up the street to learn
the occasion of what appeared to be a riot. When he was close enough
to understand its nature, he dropped his bag and came on at top speed,
shouting loudly to the battered mongrel, who tried with his remaining
strength to leap toward him through a cordon of kicking legs, while
Eugene Bantry again called to the policeman to fire.

"If he does, damn you, I'll kill him!" Joe saw the revolver raised; and
then, Eugene being in his way, he ran full-tilt into his stepbrother
with all his force, sending him to earth, and went on literally over
him as he lay prone upon the asphalt, that being the shortest way to
Respectability. The next instant the mongrel was in his master's arms
and weakly licking his hands.

But it was Eskew Arp who had saved the little dog; for it was his stick
which had tripped the clerk, and his hand which had struck him down.
All his bodily strength had departed in that effort, but he staggered
out into the street toward Joe.

"Joe Louden!" called the veteran, in a loud voice. "Joe Louden!" and
suddenly reeled. The Colonel and Squire Buckalew were making their way
toward him, but Joe, holding the dog to his breast with one arm, threw
the other about Eskew.

"It's a town--it's a town"--the old fellow flung himself free from the
supporting arm--"it's a town you couldn't even trust a yellow dog to!"

He sank back upon Joe's shoulder, speechless. An open carriage had
driven through the crowd, the colored driver urged by two ladies upon
the back seat, and Martin Pike saw it stop by the group in the middle
of the street where Joe stood, the wounded dog held to his breast by
one arm, the old man, white and half fainting, supported by the other.
Martin Pike saw