But the collie did not take the chance. As the mongrel tumbled backward, Jeff had darted in at him. But, when he saw the huge brute prone and helpless on the ground, the collie for some innate sportsmanly reason forbore to fly at the inviting throat and rip out the jugular.
Instead, looking down in grave wonder at the sprawling and kicking mastiff, Jeff took a step backward and stood, ears cocked, head on one side, slender body still braced for action, waiting for the fallen dog to rise.
Dan gasped. Then he swore aloud.
The worn-out mongrel staggered to his feet, all the fight knocked out of him by the stunning head blow and by loss of blood. Jeff danced forward afresh to the fray. But, tail between legs, the mastiff turned and limped off into the stable. His back and the slipping hind legs offered rare chance for the victor to clinch his hard-won conquest. But Jeff only stared in mild interest after his beaten enemy. Then, limping a bit from his shoulder wound and panting fast from his fierce exertions, he trotted over to Dan Rorke and thrust his wet muzzle into his master’s hand as if in quest of sympathy or praise.
He got both.
Fairly crowing with exultation Dan dropped his stick and flung both arms about his scarred pet in a breath-taking bear hug.
“Gee, but you’re the real thing, Jeffie!” he carolled, fondling the inordinately happy dog. “Of all the pups that ever happened you’re—you’re that pup! Say”—appealing to the crowd—“did you birds ever see the like of this feller’s footwork? Did you? And did you see how he wouldn’t pitch into that big stiff when he was down and out? Some white man, I’ll say! Come on home, Jeff! That shoulder of yourn will stand some patching. C’mon, Champ! Gee, but I sure named you after the right man! There ain’t anything double your weight can lay a glove on you!”
Red Keegan pattered home excitedly from a morning visit to the Pitvale Hotel. In his hand he was brandishing a telegram that had been received at the hotel telegraph desk while he was there. He made his way on hurrying feet to the barn back of the bungalow, which served his fighters as a gym, and where, at this time of day, Rorke was reasonably certain to be dawdling with the punching bag.
He came upon Dan, kneeling beside his collie and washing out lovingly a deeply ragged cut in the dog’s right shoulder. At sight of the manager Rorke broke forth into a gleeful recital of the bout between Jeff and the mastiff. But he had scarcely gotten through the first sentence when Keegan cut him short.
“That c’n wait!” decreed the manager, waving the telegram. “This can’t. Listen! I’ve cinched Feltman, at last. For right here in Pitvale. Main bout for the Athaletic Carn’val, next month. Four thousand dollars! Biggest purse ever! Those carn’val guys don’t seem to care how they spend it. And they count on your being a star attraction, here in Pitvale. Remember we figgered they’d do that.”