This harmless, if ill-timed pleasantry appeared to Hawker, in his excitement, a wanton insult. His lean face went black as thunder, and his lips worked with some savage retort that would not out. But at that instant came a strange diversion. The dog Jim, who under Blackstock's direction had been sniffing long and minutely at the clothes of the murdered man, at the rifled leather bag, and at the ground all about, came suddenly up to Hawker and stood staring at him with a deep, menacing growl, while the thick hair rose stiffly along his back. For a moment there was dead silence save for that strange accusing growl. Hawker's face went white to the lips. Then, in a blaze, of fury he yelled! "Git out o' that! I'll teach ye to come showin' yer teeth at me!" And he launched a savage kick at the animal. "JIM!! Come here!" rapped out the command of Tug Blackstock, sharp as a rifle shot. And Jim, who had eluded the kick, trotted back, still growling, to his master. "Whatever ye been doin' to Jim, Sam?" demanded one of the mill hands. "I ain't never seen him act like that afore." "He's _always_ had a grudge agin me," panted Hawker, "coz I had to give him a lickin' once." "Now ye're lyin', Sam Hawker," said Blackstock quietly. "Ye know right well as how you an' Jim were good friends only yesterday at the store, where I saw ye feedin' him. An' I don't think likely ye've ever given Jim a lickin'. It don't sound probable." "Seems to me there's a lot of us has gone a bit off their nut over this thing, an' not much wonder, neither," commented the game-warden. "Looks like Sam Hawker has gone plumb crazy. An' now there's Jim, the sensiblest dog in the world, with lots more brains than most men-kind, foolin' away his time like a year-old pup a-tryin' dig out a darn old woodchuck hole." Such, in fact, seemed to be Jim's object. He was digging furiously with both forepaws beneath the big white stone on the opposite side of the pool. "He's bit me. I'll kill him," screamed Hawker, his face distorted and foam at the corners of his lips. He plucked his hunting-knife from its sheath, and leapt forward wildly, with the evident intention of darting around the pool and knifing the dog. But Blackstock, who had been watching him intently, was too quick for him. "No, ye don't, Sam!" he snapped, catching him by the wrist with such a wrench that the bright blade fell to the ground. With a scream, Hawker struck at his face, but Blackstock parried the blow, tripped him neatly, and fell on him. "Hold him fast, boys," he ordered. "Seems like he's gone mad. Don't let him hurt himself." In five seconds the raving man was trussed up helpless as a chicken, his hands tied behind his back, his legs lashed together at the knees, so that he could neither run nor kick. Then he was lifted to his feet, and held thus, inexorably but with commiseration. "Sorry to be rough with ye, Sam," said one of the constables, "but ye've gone crazy as a bed-bug."