The end of the fight seemed very near. Yet Lad fought on. To the
attack, after each upset or wound, he crawled with deathless
courage.
The Mistress, at Lad's first charge, had stepped back. But, at
once she had caught up again the stick and belabored the sow with
all her frail muscular might. She might as well have been beating
the side of a concrete wall. Heedless of the flailing, the sow
ignored her; and continued her maddened assault on Lad. The
maids, attracted by the noise, crowded the front doorway;
clinging together and jabbering. To them the Mistress called now
for the Master's shotgun, from the study wall, and for a handful
of shells.
She kept her head; though she saw she was powerless to save the
dog she loved. And her soul was sick within her at his peril
which her puny efforts could not avert.
Running across the lawn, toward the house, she met half way the
maid who came trembling forth with the gun and two shells.
Without stopping to glance at the cartridges,--nor to realize
that they were filled with Number Eight shot, for quails,--she
thrust two of them into the breech and, turning, fired pointblank
at the sow.
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