"No, James;—no!"
Her tone was exultant.
The even, padded patter was still in her ears. It seemed so near. She saw the man's raised fist. The coarse, bulging hammer of it. She felt that something was behind her. She turned.
The chow stood there—His ears back; his coat bristling, the hairs standing on end in tremendous bushiness; his fangs laid bare. There he crouched, drawn together, ready to spring.
The man took a step toward her. Out of the corner of her eyes she could see the huge taut fist.
"I wouldn't do that, James;" she said quietly. "I just—wouldn't!"
"You'll live to rue the day." The words came hoarsely, gutturally. "I'm going to beat you, woman. I'm going to beat you,—damn good!"
"You ain't;" she said. "Look, James!"
She pointed to the chow.
"Call him off;" the man shrieked. "D'you want him to kill me?"