For years I was skeered of lightnin'. I never have quite got
over it. But no man ever said I was yellow."

Again he was silent for a while. Then he went on: "I don't seem to be
makin' much headway, I admit that. I'm lettin' him run away as far as he
can. Now I've got to shoot an' make him come toward the gun himself,
right while I'm shootin' it."

Next day Comet was tied up and fasted, and the next, until he was gaunt
and famished. Then, on the afternoon of the third day, Mrs. Swygert, at
her husband's direction, placed before him, within reach of his chain,
some raw beefsteak. As he started for it, Swygert shot. He drew back,
panting, then, hunger getting the better of him, started again. Again
Swygert shot.

After that for days Comet "ate to music," as Swygert expressed it.
"Now," he said, "he's got to come toward the gun when he's not even tied
up."

Not far from Swygert's house is a small pond, and on one side the banks
are perpendicular. Toward this pond the old man, with the gun under his
arm and the dog following, went. Here in the silence of the woods, with
just the two of them together, was to be a final test.

On the shelving bank Swygert picked up a stick and tossed it into the
middle of the pond with the command to "fetch." Comet sprang eagerly in
and retrieved it. Twice this was repeated. But the third time, as the
dog approached the shore, Swygert picked up the gun and fired.

Quickly the dog dropped the stick, then turned and swam toward the other
shore. Here, so precipitous were the banks, he could not get a foothold.
He turned once more and struck out diagonally across the pond. Swygert
met him and fired.

Over and over it happened. Each time, after he fired, the old man
stooped down with extended hand and begged him to come on. His face was
grim, and though the day was cool sweat stood out on his brow. "You'll
face the music," he said, "or you'll drown. Better be dead than called
yellow."

The dog was growing weary. His head was barely above water. His efforts
to clamber up the opposite bank were feeble, frantic. Yet, each time as
he drew near the shore Swygert fired.

He was not using light loads now. He was using the regular load of the
bird hunter. Time had passed for temporizing. The sweat was standing out
all over his face. The sternness in his eyes was terrible to see, for
it was the sternness of a man who is suffering.

A dog can swim a long time. The sun dropped over the trees. Stil