"A pretty good lick," answered Schwartz, with reminiscent satisfaction. "Then I----" "And when you hit him he slunk away like a whipped cur? He made no move to resent it? I mean, he did not try to attack you?" "Not him!" asserted Schwartz, "I guess he was glad enough to get out of reach. He slunk away so fast, I hardly had a chance to land fair on him, when I kicked." "Here is my riding-crop," said the Master. "Take it, please, and strike Lad with it just as you struck him--or the sheep-killing dog--with your stick. Just as hard. Lad has never been struck except once, unjustly, by me, years ago. He has never needed it. But if he would slink away like a whipped mongrel when a stranger hits him, the sooner he is beaten to death the better. Hit him exactly as you hit him this morning." Judge Maclay half-opened his lips to protest. He knew the love of the people of The Place for Lad, and he wondered at this invitation to a farmhand to thrash the dog publicly. He glanced at the Mistress. Her face was calm, even a little amused. Evidently the Master's request did not horrify or surprise her. Schwartz's stubby fingers gripped the crop the Master forced into his hand. With true Teutonic relish for pain-inflicting, he swung the weapon aloft and took a step toward the lazily recumbent collie, striking with all his strength. Then, with much-increased speed, Schwartz took three steps backward. For, at the menace, Lad had leaped to his feet with the speed of a fighting wolf, eluding the descending crop as it swished past him and launching himself straight for the wielder's throat. He did not growl; he did not pause. He merely sprang for his assailant with a deadly ferocity that brought a cry from Maclay. The Master caught the huge dog midway in his throatward flight. "Down, Lad!" he ordered, gently. The collie, obedient to the word, stretched himself on the floor at the Mistress' feet. But he kept a watchful and right unloving eye on the man who had struck at him. "It's a bit odd, isn't it," suggested the Master, "that he went for you, like that, just now; when, this morning, he slunk away from your blow, in cringing fear?" "Why wouldn't he?" growled Schwartz, his stolid nerve shaken by the unexpected onslaught. "His folks are here to back him up, and everything. Why wouldn't he go for me! He was slinky enough when I whaled him, this morning." "H'm!" mused the Master. "You hit a strong blow, Schwartz. I'll say that, for you. You missed Lad, with my crop. But you've split the crop. And you scored a visible mark on the wooden floor with it. Did you hit as hard as that when you struck the sheep-killer, this morning?" "A sight harder," responded Schwartz. "My mad was up. I----" "A dog's skin is softer than a pine floor," said the Master. "Your Honor, such a blow would have raised a weal on Lad's flesh, an inch high. Would your Honor mind passing your hand over his body and trying to locate such a weal?"