Lad knew well what he might expect, for this thing he had done.
He knew the Law. He knew, almost from birth, the courteous
tolerance due to folk among whom his deities took him. And now he
had made an industrious effort to kill one of these people.
It was no light offense for a dog to attack a human. Lad, like
every well-trained collie, knew that. His own death might well
follow. Indeed, from the babel of voices on the veranda,
squalling confusedly such hackneyed sentiments as "Mad dog!" and
"Get a gun!" it seemed highly probable that Lad was due to suffer
full penalty, from the man-pack.
Yet he gave no heed to the clamor. Instead, turning slowly, he
faced the Master; ready for whatever might follow. But nothing
followed,--nothing at least that he expected.
The Master simply commanded:--
"Down, Lad!"
As the dog, obediently, dropped to the ground, the Master bent to
examine the groaning and maudlinly weeping Rhuburger. In this
Samaritan task he was joined by one or two of the club's more
venturesome members who had followed him down the steps.
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