n and out twenty times...."

"Let him have it!"

"Spite yourselves!" Gordon Makimmon cried; "it's all that's left for you."

General Jackson moved forward over the porch. He growled in response to
the menace of the throng on the sod, and jumped down to their level. A
sudden, dangerous murmur rose:

"The two hundred dollar dog! The joke on Greenstream!"

He walked alertly forward, his ears pricked up on his long skull.

"C'm here, General," Gordon called, suddenly urgent; "c'm back here."

The dog hesitated, turned toward his master, when a heavy stick, whirling
out of the press of men, struck the animal across the upper forelegs. He
fell forward, with a sharp whine, and attempted vainly to rise. Both legs
were broken. He looked back again at Gordon, and then, growling, strove to
reach their assailants.

Gordon Makimmon started forward with a rasping oath, but, before he could
reach the ground, General Jackson had propelled himself to the fringe of
humanity. He made a last, convulsive effort to rise, his jaws snapped....
A short, iron bar descended upon his head.

Gordon's face became instantly, irrevocably, the shrunken face of an old
man.

The clustered men with the dead, mangled body of the dog before them; the
serene, sliding stream beyond; the towering east range bathed in keen
sunlight, blurred, mingled, in his vision. He put out a hand against one
of the porch supports--a faded shape of final and irremediable sorrow.

He exhibited neither the courage of resistance nor the superiority of
contempt; he offered, apparently, nothing material whatsoever to satisfy
the vengeance of a populace cunningly defrauded of their just
opportunities and profits; he seemed to be no more colored with life, no
more instinct with sap, than the crackling leaves blown by the increasing
wind about the uneasy feet on the grass.

He lipped a short, unintelligible period, gazing intent and troubled at
the throng. He shivered perceptibly: under the hard blue sky the wind
swept with the sting of an icy knout. Then, turning his obscure,
infinitely dejected back upon the silent menace of the bitter, sallow
countenances, the harsh angular forms, of Greenstream, he walked slowly to
the door. He paused, his hand upon the knob, as if arrested by a memory, a
realization. The door opened; the house absorbed him, presented unbroken
its weather-worn face.

A deep, concerted sigh escaped from the men without, as though, with the
vanishing