"What’s in the wagon, there?" spoke up little Olive Chatham, as a dolorous whimpering rose from the depths of the covered cart. “It sounds awful unhappy.” “It _is_ ‘awful unhappy,’ Baby,” answered her brother-in-law. “Mr. Shunk has been on his rounds, picking up some more poor little stray curs, along the road. He’s going to carry them to a filthy pen in his filthy back yard and leave them to starve and be chewed by bigger dogs there, while he pikes off to get his dollar, each, for them. Then, if they aren’t claimed and licensed in twenty-four hours, he’s going to—” “Link!” interposed Dorcas, his wife, warningly, as she visualised the effect of such a word picture on her little sister’s tender heart. But Olive had heard enough to set her baby eyes ablaze with indignation. Wheeling on Link, she demanded: “Why don’t you whip him and let out all those poor little dogs? And then why don’t you go and put him in prison for—” “Hush, dear!” whispered Dorcas, drawing the little girl close to her. “Better run back to the house now! That isn’t a nice sort of man for you to be near.” Eben Shunk caught the low-spoken words. They served to snap the last remaining threads of the baited dog catcher’s temper. His fists clenched and he took a step toward Ferris. But the latter’s lazily wiry figure did not seem to lend itself to the idea of passivity under punishment. Shunk’s angry little eyes fell on the collie. “That dog of your’n ain’t licensed,” he said. “He’s layin’ out on the public road. An’ I’m goin’ to take him along.” “Go ahead,” vouchsafed Link indifferently, with a covert glance of reassurance at his scandalised wife, who had made a family idol of Chum. “He’s there. Nobody’s stoppin’ you.” Pleased at meeting with no stouter resistance from the owner, Shunk took a step toward the recumbent collie. Little Olive cried out in hot protest. Link bent over her and whispered in her ear. The child’s face lost its look of panic and shone with pleased interest as she watched Eben bear down upon his victim. Ferris whistled hissingly between his teeth—an intermittent staccato blast. Then he, too, turned an interested gaze on the impending capture. Chum had not enjoyed the past few minutes at all. His loafing inspection of his master’s job had been interrupted by the arrival of this loud-voiced stranger. He did not like the stranger. Chum decided that, at his first glimpse and scent of the man—and the dog catcher’s voice had confirmed the distaste. Shunk belonged to the type which sensitive dogs hate instinctively. But Chum was too well versed in the guest law to molest or snarl at any one with whom Link was in seemingly amicable talk. So he had paid no overt heed to the fellow.