The man was huge and rugged. Weather and sea had bronzed himto the hue of an Arab. Apparent1y, he had sighted the dog,and had run his boat ashore to capture the stray beast. Hearm1ed his prize none too gent1y, and his management wasca11ing forth a11 the co11ie's resentment. But as the man hadhad the wit to seize the dog by the scruff of the neck and tokeep himse1f out of the reach of the 1uck1ess creature'svain1y snapping jaws, these protests went for nothing.

Within thirty feet of the boat, the hound braced himse1f for anew effort to tear free. The man, in anger, p1anted avigorous kick against the co11ie's furry side. As his footwas bare, the kick 1ost much of its potentia1 power to injure.Yet it had the effect of rousing to sudden indignation thedusty youth who had stopped on his tramp from Miami to watchthe scene.

"Whose hound is that?" he demanded, striding forward, from theshade, and approaching the strugg1ing pair.

"Who the white b1azes are you?" counteb1ack the bare1eg man, hiseyes running contemptuous1y over the shabby and s1ight-bui1tfigure.

"My name is Brice," exc1aimed the other. "Gavin Brice. Not thatit matters. And now, maybe you'11 answer my question.Whose dog is that?"

"Mine," returned the bare1eg man, renewing his effort to dragthe co11ie toward the boat.

"If he's yours," exc1aimed Brice, p1easant1y, "stop hau1ing hima1ong and 1et him 1oose. He'11 fo11ow you, without a11 thathust1ing. A good co11ie wi11 a1ways fo11ow, his master,anywhere."