re, while the snarling and now terrified dingo snapped at the
back of her neck, the rough edge of the bark thatch on the middle
of his back producing in him a horrible sense of being trapped.
That was one thing that happened in that instant. Another thing was
that the two lesser dingoes between them produced a yelp of pure
terror, and, wheeling like lightning, streaked across the clear
patch to the scrub, bellies to earth, and tails flying in a
straight line from their spines. And the third thing that happened
in that instant was the arrival at the end of the gunyah of Finn.
The arrival of the Wolfhound was really a great event. There was
something elemental about it, and something, too, suggestive of
magic. The Wolfhound had caught his first glimpse of the two lesser
dingoes as he reached the far side of the clear patch, and, for an
instant he had stood still. He was dragging a young wallaby over
one shoulder. Then it came over him that these were enemies
attacking his crippled friend Jess. He made no sound, but, dropping
his burden, flew across the clearing with deadly swiftness. As he
reached the end of the gunyah, a kind of roar burst from his
swelling chest and, in that instant, the two dingoes flung
themselves forward in flight, Finn after them. Five huge strides he
took in their rear; and then the power of thought, or telepathy, or
something of the sort, stopped him dead in the middle of his
stride, and he almost turned a somersault in wheeling round to
Jess's assistance.

As Finn plunged forward again toward Jess, the big dingo succeeded
by means of a desperate wrench in freeing his leg from the
kangaroo-hound's jaws, and with a swift turning movement leaped
clear of the shelter. Then the big dingo of the back ranges found
himself facing Finn, and realized that he must fight for his life.

The dingo has been called a skunk, and a cur, and a coward, and by
most other names that are bad and contemptuous. But the dingo at
bay is as brave as a weasel; and no lion in all Africa is braver
than a weasel at bay. Finn had brought himself to a standstill with
an effort, a towering figure of blazing wrath. He had made one good
kill that morning, his blood was hot; the picture of these dogs of
the wild kindred attacking his helpless friend had roused to
fighting fury every last little drop of blood in his whole great
body. Rage almost blinded him. He flung himself upon the big dingo
as though he were a projectile of some