BILL M C CLAIN PROSPECTOR 199 



treatment had been so bad that he could not 

 return. 



At last he saw an apparent opening through 

 an alley on his left. As this led away from the 

 miners, he raised his head and started into it. 

 Just as he entered, two well-fed dogs pounced 

 upon him and forced him back into the road. 

 Again he paused and glanced about almost hope- 

 lessly, apparently not knowing where to turn 

 or what to do. He was hungry, homeless, and 

 everywhere unwelcome. 



While he hesitated, someone hurled an empty 

 box at him, and several of the miners yelled 

 "Get out!" He dodged the box, but held his 

 ground. "Sick him, Jim," urged the miner 

 who threw the box. Jim was a plump bulldog. 

 At the forlorn dog the bulldog leaped. 



The poor fellow gave one glance down the 

 road, and then raised his head in defiance. 

 Though hungry and weak, he evidently thought 

 it would be better to fight a bulldog and die 

 than to return to the place from which ill treat- 

 ment had driven him. 



He had seen better times. In fact, he had 

 fared well. He had, moreover, been useful. 

 Until a few weeks ago, Joe's eight years of 

 life had been comfortably spent with a kind 

 old prospector, Pat Regan. When his mas- 

 ter died Joe was, by accident, turned out to 



