Miss Caprice | Page 5

grant, no matter what the risk.
"Save the darling!" her pallid lips utter.
He trembles all over, groans, takes a couple of tottering steps forward, and then leans against the wall for support.
"I cannot," he gasps.
Other Britons there are who would be equal to the emergency. Mortal man has never done aught in this world that Englishmen dare not imitate, and indeed they generally lead. It is unfortunate for England that an antipathy for dogs runs in the Blunt family.
This time Lady Ruth does not say "coward," but her face expresses the fine contempt she feels. With that mother's shrieks in her ears, what can she think of a man who will hesitate to save a sweet child, even at the risk of meeting the most terrible death known to the world?
She turns to face the man who a short time before positively refused to risk his life because Miss Caprice desired it.
What can she hope from him?
As she thus turns she discovers that John Craig is no longer there, though three seconds before his hand was on her arm.
A shout comes from the street, where, when last she looked, not a living thing could be seen but the advancing mad dog and the kneeling child. A shout that proceeds from a strong pair of lungs, and is intended to turn the attention of the brute toward the person emitting it. A shout that causes hope to thrill in many hearts, to inspire a confidence that the innocent may be saved.
The young doctor from Chicago is seen bounding to meet the maddened brute, now so terribly close to the child.
None knows better than John Craig what the result of a bite may be. He has seen more than one hydrophobia patient meet death in the most dreadful manner known to the profession.
Yet he faces this fate now, the man who was thought too cowardly to crawl out along that bleak rock and secure a white flower for a girl's whim.
He goes not because it will be a great thing to do, or on account of the admiration which success will bring him. That mother's shriek of agony rings in his ears, and if he even knew that he was going to his death, yet would he still assume the risk.
It was on account of a mother--his own--he refused to risk his life before, and the same sacred affection inspires his action now, for he could never look into her dear eyes again, except in a shame-faced way, if he allowed this child to meet death while he stood an inactive spectator of the tragedy.
As he advances, John draws his right arm from his coat-sleeve. It is not the act of thoughtlessness, but has been done with a motive.
When the coat is free, with a quick motion he whirls it around, so that it rolls about his left arm.
Those who see the act comprehend his purpose, and realize that he means to force the brute to seize him there.
All this has occurred in a very brief time. Perhaps a quarter of a minute has elapsed since Lady Ruth turned to Colonel Lionel, and besought his aid.
John Craig has at least accomplished one purpose. Just as the mad dog is about to snap at the child, the young medical student snatches the boy away, and throws him to the rear. The child rolls over and over, and then, sitting up, begins to cry, more from surprise at the rough treatment than because he is hurt.
There is no time for John to turn and fly, and pick up the child on the way.
The dog is upon him.
John has only a chance to drop on his knee, and thrust his left arm forward.
Those who are watching, and they are many, hold their breath in dread suspense.
"Heaven preserve him!" says Lady Ruth, wringing her clasped hands in an agony of fear.
They see the youth, he is hardly more, offer his bound arm to the beast, and those glittering fangs at once close upon it.
Then, quick as a flash, having filled the dog's jaws, John Craig throws himself forward, his whole effort being to crush the animal to the ground by his weight.
It is the work of a strategist. A veteran hunter when met by a fierce panther could not do better than this.
As John has expected, the dog, taken by surprise, does not offer the resistance that his powerful strength would warrant, but is at once borne backward, nor can he release his hold from the cloth-bound arm which his teeth have seized upon.
A struggle under such circumstances must be a terrible thing, and the shorter it can be made the better.
They see the man throw himself upon the brute; they know his other hand has sought the animal's throat, as the only means of ending his