The man at the window still held his tongue (I suppose because those in the room would hear him if he spoke), and so for a while the two men studied one another in silence, as if considering their next moves. After a bit, however, the bully lifted a hand, and turning back into the lighted room, walks up to one of the players, speaks a word or two and disappears. I sat up on the window seat, where till now I had been crouching for fear the shaft of light should betray me, and presently (as I was expecting) heard the latch of the back perch gently lifted, and spied the heavy form of the bully coming softly over the grass. Now, I would not have my readers prejudiced, and so may tell them this was the first time in my life I had played the eavesdropper. That I did so now I can never be glad enough, but ’tis true, nevertheless, my conscience pricked me; and I was even making a motion to withdraw when that occurred which would have fixed any man’s attention, whether he wish’d it or no. The bully must have closed the door behind him but carelessly, for hardly could he take a dozen steps when it opened again with a scuffle, and the large house dog belonging to the “Crown” flew at his heels with a vicious snarl and snap of the teeth. ’Twas enough to scare the coolest. But the fellow turn’d as if shot, and before he could snap again, had gripped him fairly by the throat. The struggle that follow’d I could barely see, but I heard the horrible sounds of it—the hard, short breathing of the man, the hoarse rage working in the dog’s throat—and it turned me sick. The dog—a mastiff—was fighting now to pull loose, and the pair swayed this way and that in the dusk, panting and murderous. I was almost shouting aloud—feeling as though ’twere my own throat thus gripp’d—when the end came. The man had his legs planted well apart. I saw his shoulders heave up and bend as he tightened the pressure of his fingers; then came a moment’s dead silence, then a hideous gurgle, and the mastiff dropped back, his hind legs trailing limp. The bully held him so for a full minute, peering close to make sure he was dead, and then without loosening his hold, dragged him across the grass under my window. By the sycamore he halted, but only to shift his hands a little; and so, swaying on his hips, sent the carcase with a heave over the wall. I heard it drop with a thud on the far side. During this fierce wrestle—which must have lasted about two minutes—the clatter and shouting of the company above had gone on without a break; and all this while the man with the white hair had rested quietly on one side, watching. But now he steps up to where the bully stood mopping his face (for all the coolness of the evening), and, with a finger between the leaves of his book, bows very politely. “You handled that dog, sir, choicely well,” says he, in a thin voice that seemed to have a chuckle hidden in it somewhere. The other ceased mopping to get a good look at him.