Pompous held her chain with all his strength, and it took all his strength to do it. Hanson was no coward, and he gazed at the monster with the interest aroused by a strange specimen of cross breeds in fierce canines. Nor did he for one moment believe that the negro would dare to loose the brute, that would be sure to fly at the stranger’s throat, throttle him down, and finish him. He smiled in derision of the man who held the dog. The beast crouched, sprang, and nearly pulled the heavy negro down. “Now, sah,” said Pompous, “will you leabe here like a ge’man, or will I let de doag loose?” “Will you open the door for me?” inquired Hanson coolly. “No, sah; couldn’t, not at no yate.” “Then I will stay here until you do.” “Den I’ll hab to let Tige loose, sah, an’ her wouldn’ min’ killin’ yo’ mo’ ’an ef yo’ was a yat.” The brute growled like subterranean thunder. “You insolent idiot! Do you dare to suppose I am afraid of your dog! Let her loose!” scornfully exclaimed Hanson. The monster reared and plunged, and nearly pitched his keeper headforemost. “Now, de Lor’ ’a’ messy on my po’ soul! Wot shall I do? My orders was to let her loose on to yo’, sah, ef so be yo’ didn’ go peaceable w’en yo’ was tol’ so to do,” said Pompous, in an agony of doubt. “Well, you zany, why don’t you obey your orders?” demanded Hanson with a scornful laugh at the negro’s distress. There are limits to human endurance of insult. That laugh settled the question; the aggravating irony of Hanson’s expression sealed it. Pompous drew himself up and swelled himself out with solemn dignity as he inquired, in a tone of gloomy reproach: “An’ do yo’ s’pose, sah, as I’m gwine to be hung fo’ de likes ob a ’toxified sinner like yo’ is?” Hanson laughed. “No, sah, I hol’s de doag offen yo’, sah; I spares yo’ libe, sah; I gibs yo’ time fo’ ’pentance, sah; an’ I hopes yo’ll make good use ob de time I gibs yo’, sah; it’s de trufe, fo’ a sollum fac’; an’ so I takes my doag, an’ leabes yo’, sah—leabes yo’ to yo’ own ’wices, sah.” And Pompous strutted solemnly away. “Hold on!” Hanson called after him. Pompous turned around. “Who were those children I saw with your mistress?” “De yittle brack gal were Hera Hutter’s chile.” “Never mind her. The little white one?” “De yittle w’ite gal were a pet orphin, wot de youn’ mist’ess ’dopted to fetch up; yes, sah.” “Your mistress is very fond of that child?” “She is, sah,” Pompous replied with curt dignity. “That will do. Give my respects to your mistress, and tell her that she shall hear from me again, and in another way.” “Couldn’ do dat, neider, sah, no mo’ ’an I could take in yo’ keerd. My o’ders is to fetch no messidge.” “No matter. She shall hear from me all the sooner, and all the more to the purpose,” muttered Hanson as he turned away from the house, walked down the avenue, and got into the railway hack that was waiting for him on the outside of the gate.