As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the front door opened, and Dr. Filhiol staggered in, admitting a furious gust of wind and rain. With great difficulty he was managing himself, holding the injured dog. Ruddy was yelping; one leg hung limp and useless.
For a tense moment the doctor confronted Briggs. He pushed the door shut, with rage and bitterness.
“And you, sir,” he suddenly exclaimed, “you go against my orders; you leave your bed and expose yourself to serious consequences, for the sake of a beast—who will do a thing like this!”
Furiously he nodded downward at the dog.
The captain advanced and, with a hand that trembled, caressed the rough muzzle.
“Hal?” asked he, under his breath. “This, too?”
“Yes, this! Nearly killed the poor creature, sir! Kicked him. And that wasn’t enough. When the dog still tried to follow him, grabbed him up and dashed him down on the steps. This leg’s broken. Ribs, too, I think. A miracle the dog wasn’t killed. Your grandson’s intention was to kill him, all right enough, but I guess he didn’t want to take time for it!” Filhiol’s lips were trembling with passion, so that he could hardly articulate. “This is horrible! Injury to a man is bad enough, but a man can defend himself, and will. But injury to a defenseless, trusting animal—my God, sir, if I’d been anything but a cripple, and if I’d had a weapon handy, I’d have had your grandson’s blood, so help me!”
The captain made no answer, but set his teeth into his bearded lip. He patted the dog’s head. Ruddy licked his hand.
“Well, sir?” demanded Filhiol. “What have you to say now?”