ith a
gun. At sight of it Comet sprang to his feet. He tried to rush out of
the room, but the doors were closed. Finally, he crawled under the
bed.

Every night after that Swygert got out the gun, until he crawled under
the bed no more. Finally, one day the man fastened the dog to a tree
in the yard, then came out with a gun. A sparrow lit in a tree, and he
shot it. Comet tried to break the rope. All his panic had returned;
but the report had not shattered him as that other did, for the gun
was loaded light.

After that, frequently the old man shot a bird in his sight, loading
the gun more and more heavily, and each time after the shot coming to
him, showing him the bird, and speaking to him kindly, gently. But for
all that the Terror remained in his heart.

One afternoon the girl, accompanied by a young man, rode over on
horseback, dismounted, and came in. She always stopped when she was
riding by.

"It's mighty slow business," old Swygert reported; "I don't know
whether I'm makin' any headway or not."

That night old Mrs. Swygert told him she thought he had better give it
up. It wasn't worth the time and worry. The dog was just yellow.

Swygert pondered a long time. "When I was a kid," he said at last,
"there came up a terrible thunderstorm. It was in South America. I was
water boy for a railroad gang, and the storm drove us in a shack.
While lightnin' was hittin' all around, one of the grown men told me
it always picked out boys with red hair. My hair was red, an' I was
little and ignorant. For years I was skeered of lightnin'. I never
have quite got over it. But no man ever said I was yellow."

Again he was silent for a while. Then he went on: "I don't seem to be
makin' much headway, I admit that. I'm lettin' him run away as far as
he can. Now I've got to shoot an' make him come toward the gun
himself, right while I'm shootin' it."

Next day Comet was tied up and fasted, and next, until he was gaunt
and famished. Then, on the afternoon of the third day, Mrs. Swygert,
at her husband's direction, placed before him, within reach of his
chain, some raw beefsteak. As he started for it, Swygert shot. He drew
back, panting, then, hunger getting the better of him, started again.
Again Swygert shot.

After that for days Comet "Ate to music," as Swygert expressed it.
"Now," he said, "he's got to come toward the gun when he's not even
tied up."

Not far from Swygert's house is a small pond, and on one side the
b