In the course of nearly every human life there comes an hour which stands out above all others as long as memory lasts.

Such was the one in which Philip crouched in the dog pit, his hand at Captain's collar, waiting for the sound of cry or shot.

So long as he lived he knew this scene could not be wiped out of his brain.

As he listened, he stared about him and the drama of it burning into his soul.

Some intuitive spirit seemed to have whispered to the dogs that these tense moments were heavy with tragic possibilities for them as well as the man.