Billy Bluff meant business; and it was well for his enemy that the stone struck him on the fore-paw. The blow steadied, but it did not stop, the dog. He gave a little gurgle and came again on three legs in silent fury.
Joses made for the cliff, where a fall had constituted a steep ramp. He scrambled up it, an avalanche of chalk slipping away from beneath his feet and half burying the pursuing dog.
He panted up to the top of the ramp, and stood with his back to the cliff, looking down on his attacker.
Billy Bluff could not make his footing good upon the shale.
He lay at the foot of the cliff, one eye on his prey, licking his damaged paw, and swearing beneath his breath. And it was clear he did not mean to budge.
Joses turned his face to the cliff. He got his hands on the top, and lifting himself, could just peer over the edge of the cliff and see the green and the gorse beyond. Unaided, he could do no more.
Happily help was at hand.
A man on a chestnut pony was standing on the turf not twenty yards away.
"Give me a hand up, will you?" he panted. "That —— of a dog!"
The young man approached.