Poor Prince seemed utterly powerless in his vigorous grasp. His tongue protruded from his mouth, his eyes seemed starting from their sockets, and death by strangulation seemed imminent.
Herbert Ross surveyed this unexpected sight with mingled surprise and dismay.
“Let him go! Don’t kill him!” he screamed.
“What made you set him on me?” demanded the tramp, savagely.
“Let him go, and he shan’t bite you!” said Herbert.
“I will take care of that myself,” said Hogan. “When I get through with him, you’ll have to bury him.”
“Let him go, and I’ll give you a quarter,” said Herbert, in the extremity of his alarm.
“That sounds better,” said Mike Hogan, moderating his grip. “Where’s the quarter?”
Herbert hurried to the fence and handed over the coin.
Mike took it, and, with a laugh, tossed the almost senseless dog into the yard, where he lay gasping for breath.