The red-haired girl was helpless. With all her daring and impishness, her courage had never compassed such peril as this. She was first a victim of her own terror, and now the victim of the bulldog's rage. "Come away from dot--you Fritz!" commanded the dog's owner, wheezingly, and at last fearful of what the beast might do. For all the man might do to balk the bulldog's intention, however, he might as well have been a mile away from his corner store. There was just one individual who could save the red-haired girl. Carolyn May suddenly realized that. "Oh, Prince!" she cried, and let go of the loop of Prince's leash. With a challenging roar--something between a bark and a growl--Prince charged along the sidewalk. He dived fairly between the saloonkeeper's bowed legs, and that astonished and frightened merchant was cast ponderously on his back upon the sidewalk, his short legs in the air. Prince perhaps had long since in his doggish mind decided just how he should tackle the white bulldog if ever he came to a clinch with him. The bulldog wore a broad, rivet-studded collar which defended his most vulnerable part--the throat. But there was another hold which quickly brings a fighting dog to grief unless he is a thoroughbred. It will never be known what inspired Prince to seize the white bulldog by one fore paw! The dog was on top of the fallen child, his slobbering jaws open. He would have seized the tender morsel in another second had not Prince made his grab first. In a riot of doggish sounds the two animals rolled over and over on the sidewalk. The bulldog forgot his prey; but Prince did not forget his object. He hung on with grimness, growling all the while and grinding his antagonist's flesh and bones between his clamped jaws. The women and children near by scattered; even the red-haired girl found renewed strength to rise and flee. But certain men ran up, surrounding the fighting dogs in an eager group. The bulldog's owner had risen and was yelling distractedly for somebody to "pull dot dog off'n Fritz." Carolyn May saw a policeman running across the avenue toward the spot, his stick gripped aggressively in his hand. He was a young, lean, nattily uniformed policeman, one of the recently appointed patrolmen whose lack of bulk and brute strength is made up to them in training, science, and brains. Carolyn May knew this policeman. She did not want him to misunderstand the situation and consider Prince at fault. "Oh, it's my dog! You know my dog, Mr. Policeman! And he isn't off his leash!" "I get you, little girl," said the officer with twinkling eyes and pushed his way into the centre of the wrangle. The owner of the bulldog was not very successfully kicking at Prince. The bulldog was searching his soul for sounds to tell how bad he felt, while Prince was still holding on. The officer bent over the struggling dogs and dealt a single skilful blow with his stick.