“Pitcher of George Washington!” he gurgled. “That blamed wood-pussy’s gotter git off this load! I didn’t come out here to give it a ride, I vum!” He hung the reins on one of the sled stakes, seized a hickory club as thick as his forearm, and crept back towards the angry animal. The dog’s weight hanging to its tail was giving the lynx about all it could think of or take care of; yet it spat at Tim and struck at him with one paw. “Would ye, ye nasty beast?” cried Tim, rising to his feet. “Scat!” He struck at the head of the lynx with his club. That blow certainly would have done some execution had it landed where Tim intended it to land—on the creature’s head. But, instead, the end of the club came down with great force on a log. The blow had a tremendous effect, but not in the way Tim expected. The jar of the stroke almost paralysed the man’s arm. He uttered a groan and staggered back. The sled runner went over a hummock just then on one side of the trail, while the runner on the other side sank into a rut. Like a diver from a springboard, Tim went head first, and backward, into a snowbank beside the road. “Pitcher of George—” The rest of his favourite ejaculation was smothered by the snow, into which he plunged so deeply that only his felt boots, kicking heavenward, were to be seen. Meanwhile, the sled lumbered on, although the reckless pace of the horses was reduced. The peril to the little girl on the pile of logs increased, however, as the pace of the horses decreased. She was quite helpless, save that she managed to retain her grasp on the log-chain. But there was nobody to protect her now from the furious beast that was making its best endeavour to crawl to the top of the logs. If the lynx shook the mongrel loose it would attain its desire. Assured of a footing on the logs, there was no knowing what it might do in its rage. Carolyn May was in the gravest peril. The child was too excited to cry out again. She clung with her mittened hands to the chain and gazed back at the snarling, spitting lynx with wide-open, terrified eyes. Both beasts were scratching and tearing at the logs to obtain a foothold; the lynx was energetically trying to drag itself and the dog farther up on the logs, while Prince was striving to pull down his prey. The dog seemed to know his little mistress was in danger. He was not going to let go. It was the lynx that finally gave in. Squalling and clawing, its nails stripping long splinters from the maple logs, the cat fell back. When the two animals struck the hard snow, Prince was shaken off. But the mongrel was brave. He dived in again and seized the lynx, this time by the throat. The cat got in a stroke with its hind paws. The lacerations along Prince’s side were deep and painful, but he held to his prey.