Without a single cry, the immense hound leaped forward.
Barry Brown’s steady eyes flashed like two stars.
His left arm was struck forward, fairly into the immense jaws of the hound as the brute dropped upon him.
The white teeth sank into the thin cloth, and the force of the charge sent Barry over on his back.
The brute came fairly on top of him with its crushing weight.
That armed right hand went up like some mechanical contrivance four or five times with the regularity of clock work, and the keen blade sank again and again into the quivering body of the hound.
The powerful jaws relaxed their hold, the beast rolled off sidewise from the man, and after a few convulsive struggles, gave its last kick and died.
Barry arose to his feet, kicked the dog aside, and then looked to see from what place the creature had come when he made his first leap.
He saw a sort of a kennel in one corner, and thither he dragged the dead hound by his tail and left it.
“A very good dog,” soliloquized he, “a very good dog indeed, but he wasn’t fairly up to the mark, or he never would have given me a chance to draw a weapon. I wonder how long it will take them to find out that he’s dead? It’s rather odd that Jack shouldn’t know anything about the hound being there. Perhaps he forgot to tell me. Well, that’s one guard gone, and the fact that he was a guard tells me that I’m approaching some place worth guarding, and that is what I’m after. I’m blessed if I can see any door in the wall.”