Suddenly the weight of Allan's body was hurled
against him; strong supple fingers closed upon his neck, and with an
unexpected wrench Jack McMillan's head was buried in a drift of soft,
deep snow. He struggled violently to wrest himself from the iron grasp;
madly he fought for freedom; but always there was that slow, deadly
tightening at the throat. Panting and choking, he had made one last
desperate attempt to break the grip that pinned him down; and then lay
spent and inert except for an occasional hoarse gasp, or convulsive
movement of his massive frame.
At length the man had risen, and the dog, feeling himself loosed, and
able to get his breath, staggered uncertainly to his feet, turned, and
stood bravely facing his foe. There was, for a brief period, the
suggestion of a renewed conflict in the dog's attitude. With the foam
dripping from his mouth, quivering in every muscle; but still erect,
exhausted but not cowed, he waited for the next move--and when it came
McMillan had met his master. Not because of the force in the vise-like
fingers, not because of the dominating mind that controlled them, but
because of the generous spirit that treats a conquered enemy--even a
dog--as an honorable antagonist, not an abject slave.
There had seemed to be a sudden comprehension on the part of the dog,
like the clearing of a distorting mist. He realized in the tone of the
man's voice the recognition and appreciation of qualities which stand
not alone for unquenchable hatred, but for undying fidelity as well; and
when "Scotty's" hand fell upon his head, and gently stroked the soft
sable muzzle, Jack McMillan had not only met a master, but he had made a
friend.
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