“Sick him, Nick! Sick him!”
And the dog proceeded to “go for” the caller. Had the latter run away, the brute would have been at his heels, nipping and biting at each step. But Mike had no thought of retreating. He was filled with anger at his inhospitable reception and gave his whole attention to the animal, which with a muttered growl charged full speed at him.
Mike noticed that a collar with projecting spikes encircled the stumpy neck, and never was one of his breed more eager to bury his teeth in a victim’s anatomy.
“This is going to be a shindy sure, as Micky Rooney said when he tackled five p’licemen—and I haven’t even a shillaleh in hand.”
Mike coolly braced himself for the shock, not yielding an inch nor turning his gaze from his foe. It was no longer a doddering old man who faced the stranger, but a sturdy youth, muscular, brave and always eager for the fray.
Nothing could surpass the skill with which the first assault was repelled. At the exact moment Mike launched his shoe, the toe of which caught Nick under the jaw and caused him to turn a backward somersault. He uttered several yelps, but the blow added if possible to his rage.
The dog was so bewildered for the moment that he lost his sense of direction, and made a dash toward the porch where his master was watching proceedings.
“Sick him, Nick! Sick him!” he called, pointing his finger at the lad.
Nick impetuously obeyed orders, and at the critical moment Mike launched a second kick, which, however, was not delivered with the mathematical exactness of the first. It landed in the canine’s neck and drove him back several paces, but he kept his balance, and came on again with the same headlong fierceness as before.
It was at this juncture that Stockham Calvert flung away his cigar, sprang from his chair and with one bound landed beside Alvin Landon.