After it flew Lad, silent, terrible,--not stopping to realize
that the fleetest dog,--even with all four of his legs in
commission,--cannot hope to overhaul a motor-car driven at fifty
miles an hour.
But, at the end of a furious quarter-mile, his wise brain took
charge once more of his vengeance-craving heart. He halted,
snarled hideously after the vanished car, and limped miserably
back to the scene of the tragedy.
There, he found the Mistress sitting in the roadside dust, Lady's
head in her lap. She was smoothing lovingly the soft rumpled fur;
and was trying hard not to cry over the inert warm mass of
gold-and-white fluffiness which, two minutes earlier, had been a
beautiful thoroughbred collie, vibrant with life and fun and
lovableness.
The Master had risen from his brief inspection of his pet's fatal
injuries. Scowling down the road, he yearned to kick himself for
his stupidity in failing to note the Juggernaut's number.
Head and tail a-droop, Lad toiled back to where Lady was lying. A
queer low sound, strangely like a human sob, pulsed in his shaggy
throat, as he bent down and touched his dead mate's muzzle with
his own.
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