Suddenly three persons sprang to the rescue, two from below and one from above. The last was a woman and the owner of the dog.
"Mon Dieu! My dear little Tu-tu!" she screamed.
And with a howl of wrath that drowned the piercing voice of poor little Tu-tu she precipitated herself upon the enemy.
The latter turned her weapon upon the new-comer just as the two men from below grabbed her. This diversion enabled the infuriated dog-owner to plant both hands in the enemy's hair, which came off at the first wrench.
"Oh!" cried Jean.
"It is horrible!" said Mlle. Fouchette, with a shudder.
From where they beheld the tragedy they could not see that the hair was false.
But the dog-beater was just as angry as if it had been ripped from its original and virgin pasture, and she uttered a shriek that was heard around the block and grappled her three assailants.
The whole four, a struggling composite mass of legs and arms, went rolling down to the next landing surrounded by a special and lurid atmosphere of oaths.
There they were arrested by the aroused police agents.