For protecting creatures naturally so helpless, sternness--or at least its outward seeming--became occasionally necessary. One day young Thornton's dog leaped into the hen-yard and caused a commotion there. Sophocles was prompt in defence. He drew a pistol and fired, while the dog, perceiving his mistake, retreated as he had come. The following day Thornton Senior, walking down the street, was suddenly embarrassed by seeing Sophocles on the same sidewalk. Remembering, however, the old man's usually averted gaze, he hoped to pass unnoticed. But as the two came abreast, gruff words and a piercing eye signalled stoppage. "Mr. Thornton, you have a son." "Yes, Mr. Sophocles, a boy generally well-meaning but sometimes thoughtless." "Your son has a dog." "A nervous dog, rather difficult to regulate." "The dog worried my chickens." "So I heard, and was sorry enough to hear it." "I fired a pistol at him." "Very properly. A pity you didn't hit him." "The pistol was not loaded." And before Mr. Thornton could recover his wits for a suitable reply Sophocles had drawn from his pocket one of his long Sinaitic sweetmeats, had cut off a lump with his jack-knife, handed it to Mr. Thornton, and with the words, "This is for the boy who owns the dog," was gone. The incident well illustrates the sweetness and savagery of the man, his plainness, his readiness to right a wrong and protect the weak, his rejection of smooth and unnecessary words, his rugged exterior, and the underlying kindness which ever attended it.