But Jerry was a devil-dog. He had been raised and trained by Dirty Dan
O'Leary and in company with that interesting anthropoid he had been
through many stormy passages. Long before, he had learned that the
offensive frequently wins--the defensive never. It is probable that he
wept as he sniffed the awful stuff, but if he did they were tears of
rage.

Jerry's first move was to stand on his head and cover his face with
his paws. Then he did several back flips and wailed aloud in his
misery and woe, his yelps of distress quite filling the empyrean. But
only for the space of a few seconds. Recovering his customary aplomb
he made a flying leap for the top of the gate, his yelps now succeeded
by ambitious growls--and in self-defense The Laird was forced to spray
him again as he clung momentarily on top of the palings. With a sob
Jerry dropped back and buried his nose in the dust, while The Laird
beat a hurried retreat into the darkness, for he had lost all
confidence in his efforts to inculcate in Jerry an humble and contrite
spirit.

He could hear rapid footsteps inside the little house; then the door
opened and in the light that streamed from within he was indistinctly
visible to Nan as she stood in the doorway.

"Jerry!" he heard her call. "Good dog! What's the matter? After him,
Jerry. Go get him, Jerry!" She ran to the gate and opened it for the
dog, who darted through, but paused again to run his afflicted nose in
the dust and roll a couple of times. Apparently he felt that there was
no great hurry; his quarry could not escape him. It is probable, also,
that he was more or less confused and not quite certain which
direction the enemy had taken, for Jerry's sense of smell was
temporarily suspended and his eyes blinded by tears; certain his
language was not at all what it should have been.

The Laird ran blindly, apprehensively, but for a very short distance.
Suddenly he bumped into something quite solid, which closed around him
viciously. "Halt, damn you," a commanding voice cried.

Despite his years, Hector McKaye was no weakling, and in the knowledge
that he could not afford to be captured and discovered, seemingly he
slipped forty years from his shoulders. Once more he was a lumberjack,
the top dog of his district--and he proceeded to fight like one. His
old arms rained punches on the midriff of the man who held him and he
knew they stung cruelly, for at every punch the man grunted and strove
to clinch him tigh