John Flint stood staring after her, his hand on the dog's collar, holding him in. His face was still without a vestige of color, and his eyes glittered. Then his other hand crept out to touch the dog's head.
"It's wet—where she dropped tears on it! Parson ... she's given me her dog ... that she loves enough to cry over!"
"He's a very fine dog, and she has had him and loved him from his puppyhood," I reminded him. And I added, with a wily tongue: "You can always turn him over to me, you know—if you decide to take to the road and wish to get rid of a troublesome companion. A dog is bad company for a man who wishes to dodge the police."
But he only shook his head. His eyes were troubled, and his forehead wrinkled.
"Parson," said he, hesitatingly, "did you ever feel like you'd been caught by—by Something reaching down out of the dark? Something big that you couldn't see and couldn't ever hope to get away from, because it's always on the job? Ain't it a hell of a feeling?"
"Yes," I agreed. "I've felt—caught by that Something, too. And it is at first a terrifying sensation. Until—you learn to be glad."
"You're caught—and you know under your hat you're never going to be able to get away any more. It'll hold you till you die!" said he, a little wildly. "My God! I'm caught! First It bit off a leg on me, so I couldn't run. Then It wished you and your bugs on me. And now—Yes, sir; I'm done for. That kid got my goat this morning. My God, who'd believe it? But it's true: I'm done for. She gave me her dog and she got my goat!"