led rear platform, where a woman
rose quickly from a chair, snatched up a boy smaller than Tommy, and
held him high in her arms. The boy waved at him, the woman smiled
brilliantly, and he ran after them, leaping into the air, barking his
hungry soul out.

But the waving woman and the smiling boy whirled away, and in that
desolate country a big Irish setter stood between the rails, and looked
with straining eyes after the vanishing rear of the northbound Florida
Limited, overhung by coils of smoke.

That was what had brought him down here. Those long, flashing rails led
home! He stood oblivious of everything else. He did not hear the shouts,
he did not see the burly man jump off his mule, cut a stick, and hurry
toward him, gun in hand.

He had endured much during those evil days. But what followed was that
which neither man nor dog can ever forgive or forget. At the first blow
he sprang about, mad with rage, but the man held the gun--to spring was
to spring to death. He dropped down at the man's feet and laid his head
over the rail. He did not cry out. But the blows sounded hollow on his
gaunt ribs, they ached sickeningly into his very vitals.

It could have had but one ending. Another blow, and he would have leaped
at the man's throat and to death. But the other man was rushing at them.
"Great God, Jim," he cried, "let up! You want to kill him?" White of
face, he had grabbed the stick, and the two stood facing one another.
From the pines still rose the great shouting roar.

They came home through the dusk, a silent procession: the burly man rode
in front, then the other man, and behind, with drooped head and tail,
trotted old Frank. Now and then in the gathering gloom the men looked
back at him, but not once did he raise his eyes to them.

"I guess I learned him his lesson, Sam."

Sam did not reply.

"I'm gettin' tired of waitin', anyhow."

Still Sam did not reply.

And his silence must have had its effect; for when they reached home the
burly man made the dog come into the shack. The wind had ceased, the
night turned chilly, and they let him lie down before the fire of pine
knots. The woman brought him a pot of hominy; the men felt his ribs as
gently as they could. He shrank from the touch more than from the pain.
Kindness had come too late, even for a dog.

He lay before the hearth, indifferent to all that happened in this
shabby room, for the sight of this fire had made him see another and
kindlier fire