"Bring in the birds," Chet said. Bulow stood by them, but refused to touch them. Again and again the order was repeated, but still the animal refused.
Chet grew white with passion.
"Never mind, Wallace," said his friend. "Some dogs—good ones, too—never make retrievers. Something in their early training was wrong."
"Bring those birds here!" roared Chet, paying no heed.
The poor dog trembled from head to foot, but stood as if made of stone.
A moment more and Chet had raised his gun to his shoulder and fired, filling the dumb creature's hips with shot. With a piteous whine the dog dropped to the ground.
"Get up and come here!" roared his master.
With an obedience that ought to have shamed the hard-hearted wretch, the animal dragged himself up and to his master's feet, blood trickling from a score or more shot holes.
"Now, go bring that bird here."
"I never saw such a look of piteous agony in eyes, human or brute, before," Topsy exclaimed vehemently. "It was terrible!"