THE GIFT-HORSE "Your dog is your own dog," remarked Jerry Strann, still to the back of the card-laying stranger, "but this ain't your back-yard.

Keep your eye on him, or I'll fix him so he won't need watching!" So saying he made another step forward, and it brought a snarl from the dog; not one of those high-whining noises, but a deep guttural that sounded like indrawn breath.

The gun of Jerry Strann leaped into his hand.
"Bart," said the gentle-voiced stranger, "lie down and don't talk." And he turned in his chair, pulled his hat straight, and looked mildly upon the gunman.

An artist would have made much of that picture, for there was in this man, as in Strann, a singular portion of beauty.

It was not, however, free from objection, for he had not the open manliness of the larger of the two.