The Zinns took breakfast in the kitchen this Thursday, so that the warmth of the cookstove might fight the frost out of the air, and Oliver, the oldest boy, announced from the window that old Gripper, the constable’s dog, had come into the back yard. The blacksmith rose to make sure. He saw Gripper, a big black-and-tan sheep dog, nosing the top of the garbage can, and a grin of infinite satisfaction came to the face of Peter Zinn. First he cautioned the family to remain discreetly indoors. Then he stole out by the front way, came around to the rear of the tall fence which sealed his back yard and closed and latched the gate. The trap was closed on Gripper, after which Zinn returned to the house and lifted Blondy to the kitchen window. The hair lifted along the back of Blondy’s neck; a growl rumbled in the deeps of his powerful body. Yonder was his domain, his own yard, of which he knew each inch, the smell of every weed and rock; yonder was the spot where he had killed the stray chicken last July; near it was the tall, rank nettle, so terrible to an over-inquisitive nose; and behold a strange dog pawing at the very place where, only yesterday, he had buried a stout bone with rich store of marrow hidden within! “Oh, Peter, you ain’t--” began Mrs. Zinn. Her husband silenced her with an ugly glance; then he opened the back door and tossed Blondy into the yard. The bull terrier landed lightly, and running. He turned into a white streak which crashed against Gripper, turned the latter head over heels, and tumbled the shepherd into a corner. Blondy wheeled to finish the good work, but Gripper lay at his feet, abject upon his belly, with ears lowered, head pressed between his paws, wagging a conciliatory tail and whining a confession of shame, fear, and humility. Blondy leaped at him with a stiff-legged jump and snapped his teeth at the very side of one of those drooped ears, but Gripper only melted a little closer to the ground. For, a scant ten days before, he had seen that formidable warrior, the Chippings’ greyhound, throttled by the white destroyer. What chance would he have with his worn old teeth? He whined a sad petition through them and closing his eye he offered up a prayer to the god who watches over all good dogs: Never, never again would he rummage around a strange back yard if only this one sin were forgiven! The door of the house slammed open; a terrible voice was shouting: Take him, Blondy! Kill him, Blondy. Blondy, with a moan of battle joy, rushed in again; his teeth clipped over the neck of Gripper; but the dreadful jaws did not close. For, even in this extremity. Gripper only whined and wagged his tail the harder. Blondy danced back. “You damn quitter!” yelled Peter Zinn. “Tear him to bits! Take him, Blondy!” The tail of Blondy flipped from side to side to show that he had heard. He was shuddering with awful eagerness, but Gripper would not stir.