Billy, the Dog That Made Good 
‘And you,” he said to the Turk, “I’ve just two 
words for you: ‘Come here!’”’ He took off his belt, 
put it through the collar of the Terrible Turk, led 
him to one side. I turned my head away. A 
rifle cracked, and when at length I looked Yancy 
was kicking leaves and rubbish over some carrion 
that one time was a big strong bulldog. Tried in 
the fire and found wanting, a bully, a coward, a 
thing not fit to live. 
But heading all on the front of Yancy’s saddle 
in the triumphal procession homeward was Billy, 
the hero of the day, his white coat stained with red. 
His body was stiff and sore, but his exuberant spirits 
were little abated. He probably did not fully 
understand the feelings he had aroused in others, 
but he did know that he was having a glorious 
time, and that at last the world was responding to 
the love he had so bounteously squandered on it. 
Riding in a pannier on a packhorse was Old 
Thunder. It was weeks before he got over the 
combined mauling he got from the Bear and the 
bulldog, and he was soon afterward put in honor- 
able retirement, for he was full of years. 
Billy was all right again in a month, and when 
half a year later he had shed his puppy ways, his 
good dog sense came forth in strength. Brave asa 
Lion he had proved himself, full of life and energy, 
139 
a. 
IY 
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| Gin 
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