"There ain't an inch of gas left," said the man who had driven the car. "It's the last chance for fifty miles." "Have you looked in the can?" asked the heavy man, his face worried. "You saw me empty it last night, didn't you?" sneered the other. He pulled a big can out of the car, then he parted the curtains. "See here, kid, you want to keep damn quiet--hear?" No sound came from within. "Did you hear me?" The voice sounded muffled in a sort of sob. "Yes, sir!" "All right. Remember! I'm comin' back." He fastened the curtains together. He muttered directions to his uneasy companion. "You drive up to them bushes and wait." He put in his hip pocket something that flashed brilliantly, even pleasantly, in the sun, he put on his coat, picked up the can, and started down the shaded road. And old Frank, fierce eyes shrewd, hair risen all the way down his gaunt back, rose guardedly, crept through the bushes, came out in the road behind and followed. Old Frank had been a companion of men all his days. He had hunted with them, shared their food and fire, looked up with steady, open eyes into their faces. He had never had a human enemy before. But now he stalked this man as his ancestors had stalked big game--muscles tense, head low between gaunt shoulder blades, eyes hard and bloodshot. When the man turned he would rush forward and spring at his throat. But the man hurried on, and looked neither to the right nor left, nor behind him. Thus they came suddenly out of a wilderness into a village that straggled up the sides of mountains. There were glimpses of white cottages clinging to abrupt hillsides, or rambling steps leading to green summer lawns, or swings in the shade, or white-clad, romping children--children like Tommy Earle. Yonder down the street glass knobs of telephone poles glistened in the sun. At the end of the street rose the white columns of a long building with a big, black, dust-covered car in front. Women in white, children with nurses, sallow mountain folk, were abroad in the first coolness of the afternoon. It was the busy season, when the heat of cities drives people to the fresh air of the mountains and a hundred such villages spring into life and laughter. Through this holiday crowd went the red-faced, dusty man. Twenty paces behind followed the gaunt Irish setter. People stopped in the street to look back at him. Children pulled on their nurses' hands, thrilling to make friends with such a big dog, then pulled back, distrustful of the look in his eyes. Man, then dog, passed the drug store where behind plate-glass windows cool-dressed men and women sat at slender tables. Next to the drug store was a brick garage with a gasolene meter in front. About the entrance loitered a group of men watching. One was bigger than the rest and wore a wide-brimmed hat.