Billy, the Dog That Made Good 
swift sweep of that great paw, and he went reeling 
back, bruised and shaken. Still he rallied, rushed 
as though he knew it all must turn on him, and 
would have closed once more, when Turk, the 
mighty warrior Turk, the hope and valor of the 
pack, long holding back,, sprang forward now and 
fastened, gripped with all his strength—on the 
bear? No, shame of shames—how shall I say 
the truth? Ox poor old Thunder, wounded, bat- 
tered, winded, downed, seeking to save his master. 
On him the bulldog fastened with a grip of hate. 
This was what he waited for, this was the time 
of times that he took to vent his pent-up jealous 
rage—sprang from behind, dragged Thunder down 
to hold him gasping in the brushwood. The Bear 
had freedom now to wreak revenge; his only 
doughty foeman gone, what could prevent him? 
But from the reeling, spieling, yapping pack there 
sprung a small white dog, not for the monster’s 
heel, not for his flank, or even for his massive 
shoulder forging on, but for his face, the only place 
where dog could count in such a sudden stound, 
gripped with an iron grip above the monster’s 
eye, and the huge head jerking back made that 
small dog go flapping like a rag; but the dog hung 
‘on. The Bear reared up to claw, and now we saw 
‘a that desperate small white dog was Silly Billy, 
" x 137 
