In a moment the runners were together. Both recoiled, neither went up
in the air, but the white Dog rolled over with a fearful gash in her
shoulder--out of the fight, if not killed. Ten seconds later the
Blue-spot arrived, open-mouthed. This meeting was as quick and almost
as mysterious as the first. The animals barely touched each other. The
gray one bounded aside, his head out of sight for a moment in the flash
of quick movement. Spot reeled and showed a bleeding flank. Urged on by
the men, he assaulted again, but only to get another wound that taught
him to keep off.
Now came the keeper with four more huge Dogs. They turned these loose,
and the men armed with clubs and lassos were closing to help in
finishing the Wolf, when a small boy came charging over the plain on a
Pony. He leaped to the ground and wriggling through the ring flung his
arms around the Wolf's neck. He called him his "Wolfie pet," his "dear
Wolfie"--the Wolf licked his face and wagged its tail--then the child
turned on the crowd and through his streaming tears, he--Well it would
not do to print what he said. He was only nine, but he was very
old-fashioned, as well as a rude little boy. He had been brought up in
a low saloon, and had been an apt pupil at picking up the vile talk of
the place. He cursed them one and all and for generations back; he did
not spare even his own father.
If a man had used such shocking and insulting language he might have
been lynched, but coming from a baby, the hunters did not know what to
do, so finally did the best thing. They laughed aloud--not at
themselves, that is not considered good form--but they all laughed at
the German whose wonderful Dogs had been worsted by a half-grown Wolf.
Jimmie now thrust his dirty, tear-stained little fist down into his
very-much-of-a-boy's pocket, and from among marbles and chewing-gum, as
well as tobacco, matches, pistol cartridges, and other contraband, he
fished out a flimsy bit of grocer's twine and fastened it around the
Wolf's neck. Then, still blubbering a little, he set out for home on
the Pony, leading the Wolf and hurling a final threat and anathema at
the German nobleman: "Fur two cents I'd sic him on you, gol darn ye."