The bite stung, and with the sting came a swirl of wholesome indignation into the exiled baby’s hitherto peace-loving brain. Away back in his cosmos snarled the spirit of Upstreet Butcherboy. Scarce knowing what he did, he flashed from under the larger body and made a lightning lunge for the bully’s throat.
Subconscious fighting skill guided the counter-assault and lent zest to the grappling youngster’s onset. As a result, some five seconds later, the bully was on his back, squalling right piteously for mercy from the opponent that was barely two-thirds his size, and half his age.
By this time, Buff had shifted his vise-like grip from throat to forelegs, and thence to stomach. For, along with the pit terrier’s instinct for biting hard and holding on, he had inherited his collie forbears’ knack of being everywhere at once in a fight; and of changing one hold for a better at an instant’s notice. Which unusual combination would have delighted the soul of any professional dogfighter.
Yet, the moment the bully was cowed into subjection, Buff let him up. Nor did he—at food trough or elsewhere—seek to take advantage of his new position as boss of the run. He did not care to harass and terrorize lesser pups. He preferred to be friends with all the world, as he had been with his dear and friendly mother.
And so time wore on—time that shaped the roly-poly Buff into a leggy but handsome six-months’ pup. And now the promise of the three-day baby was fulfilled, more and more every hour. With puzzled pride Shawe used to stand and inspect him. The pup was shaping into a true winner. But what could be done with him—minus pedigree and plus bar-sinister as he was? If Buff had been a thoroughbred he would have been worth a small fortune to his owner. But now——
Again fate settled the problem—once and for all.
It was the night after the kennelman had put collars for the first time on all the pups in Buff’s yard. These collars were of a rudimentary sort, and for use only long enough to accustom the young necks to such burden. Each collar was a circle of clothesline, with buckle and tongue attached, and with its wearer’s “kennel name”—a very different title from the lofty “pedigree name”—scribbled on a tag attached to the steel tongue.
Buff did not like his collar at all. It fidgeted him and made him nervous. The name-tag flapped tantalisingly just beneath the reach of his jaws; which added to the annoyance. That was one reason why Buff could not sleep. After a time he gave up the effort at slumber, and came out of the sleeping quarters where his companions were snoozing in furry comfort.
He made a few futile attempts to get the fluttering tag between his teeth and to rub off the collar against the wire meshes. Then, with a sigh of annoyance, he stretched himself out on the ground near the yard’s gate.
He was still lying there when the kennelman came to fill the yard’s water-pans before going to bed. As all the pups, presumably, were asleep in their houses, the man did not bother to shut the wire gate behind him as he entered the yard.