“Keep still, fool,” said Mr. Zinn. “Look at Blondy. He ain’t even whining. Pain don’t hurt nothing. Pain is the making of a dog—or a man! Look at there—if he ain’t licking my hand! He knows his master!”
A horse kicked old Joe Harkness the next day, and Peter Zinn took charge of the blacksmith shop. He was greatly changed by his stay in the penitentiary, so that superficial observers in the town of Sioux Crossing declared that he had been reformed by punishment, inasmuch as he no longer blustered or hunted fights in the streets of the village. He attended to his work, and as everyone admitted that no farrier in the country could fit horseshoes better, or do a better job at welding, when Joe Harkness returned to his shop he kept Zinn as a partner. Neither did Peter Zinn waste time or money on bootleg whisky, but in spite of these new and manifold virtues some of the very observant declared that there was more to be feared from the silent and settled ferocity of his manner than from the boisterous ways which had been his in other days. Constable Tom Frejus was among the latter. And it was noted that he practiced half an hour every day with his revolver in the back of his lot.
So Peter Zinn took charge of the blacksmith shop, and the town declared him reformed.
Blondy, in the meantime, stepped into maturity in a few swift months. On his fore and hind quarters the big ropy muscles thrust out. His neck grew thicker and more arched, and in his dark brown eyes there appeared a wistful look of eagerness which never left him saving when Peter Zinn was near. The rest of the family he tolerated, but did not love. It was in vain that Mrs. Zinn, eager to please a husband whose transformation had filled her with wonder and with awe, lavished attentions upon Blondy and fed him with dainties twice a day. It was in vain that the three boys petted and fondled and talked kindly to Blondy. He endured these demonstrations, but did not return them. But when five o’clock came in the evening of the day, Blondy went out to the gate of the front yard and stood there like a white statue until a certain heavy step sounded on the wooden sidewalk up the hill. That noise changed Blondy into an ecstasy of impatience, and when the big man came through the gate, Blondy raced and leaped about him with such a muffled whine of joy, coming from such deeps of his heart, that his whole body trembled. At meals Blondy lay across the feet of the master. At night he curled into a warm circle at the foot of the bed.
There was only one trouble with Blondy. When people asked: “What sort of a dog is that?” Peter Zinn could never answer anything except: “A hell of a good fighting dog; you can lay to that.” It was a stranger who finally gave them information, a lumber merchant who had come to Sioux Crossing to buy timber land. He stopped Peter Zinn on the street and crouched on his heels to admire Blondy.
“A real white one,” said he. “As fine a bull terrier as I ever saw. What does he weigh?”
“Fifty-five pounds,” said Zinn.
“I’ll give you five dollars for every pound of him,” said the stranger.