But Tony, while yelling, was as game as a ferret, and, moreover, the Airedale had him by the back, so Stephen got hastily out of the car—it seemed only a matter of moments for Tony. She grabbed the old rip by the scruff of his neck, while the butcher dashed off for a bucket of water. The desperate young woman seized her dog by a leg; she pulled, Stephen pulled, they both pulled together. Then Stephen gave a punishing twist which distracted the Airedale, he wanted to bite her; having only one mouth he must let go of Tony, who was instantly clasped to his owner’s bosom. The butcher arrived on the scene with his bucket while Stephen was still clinging to the Airedale’s collar. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Gordon, I do hope you’re not hurt?’ ‘I’m all right. Here, take this grey devil and thrash him; he’s no business to eat up a dog half his size.’ Meanwhile, Tony was dripping all over with gore, and his mistress, it seemed, had got herself bitten. She alternately struggled to staunch Tony’s wounds and to suck her own hand which was bleeding freely. ‘Better give me your dog and come across to the chemist, your hand will want dressing,’ remarked Stephen. Tony was instantly put into her arms, with a rather pale smile that suggested a breakdown. ‘It’s quite all right now,’ said Stephen quickly, very much afraid the young woman meant to cry. ‘Will he live, do you think?’ inquired a weak voice. ‘Yes, of course; but your hand—come along to the chemist.’ ‘Oh, never mind that, I’m thinking of Tony!’ ‘He’s all right. We’ll take him straight off to the vet when your hand’s been seen to; there’s quite a good one.’ The chemist applied fairly strong carbolic; the hand had been bitten on two of the fingers, and Stephen was impressed by the pluck of this stranger, who set her small teeth and endured in silence. The hand bandaged they drove along to the vet, who was fortunately in and could sew up poor Tony. Stephen held his front paws, while his mistress held his head as best she could in her own maimed condition. She kept pressing his face against her shoulder, presumably so that he should not see the needle. ‘Don’t look, darling—you mustn’t look at it, honey!’ Stephen heard her whispering to Tony. At last he too was carbolicked and bandaged, and Stephen had time to examine her companion. It occurred to her that she had better introduce herself, so she said: ‘I’m Stephen Gordon.’ ‘And I’m Angela Crossby,’ came the reply; ‘we’ve taken The Grange, just the other side of Upton.’