burdens.  Jim Doolan, the big Irishman, was of opinion that Dennis Brown was little better than a denied baby with a soft spot in his head, but he admitted that the cow-puncher was “white,” and obviously bent upon self-destruction.  By this time the camp knew that the boss was taking an unholy interest in Dennis, although he continued to treat him with derisive civility.  The rage he couldn’t suppress was vented upon the dog.  And Dennis never saw the poor beast kicked or beaten without reflecting:  “He does that to Mamie when nobody ain’t lookin’.”  In his feeble fashion he tried to interfere.  Dollars to Tom Barker were dearer than cardinal virtues, and he had never been known to refuse an opportunity to make a bit on any deal.  Dennis offered to buy the dog.

“What’s he worth?” said Tom, thrusting out his jaw.

“I’ll give five for him.”

“Five?  For a dog that I’ve learned to love?  Not much!”

“Ten?”

“Nope!”

“Fifteen?”

Tom laughed.

“You ain’t got money enough to buy him,” he said.  “I’m going to have more fun than a barrel o’ monkeys out o’ this yere dog, and don’t you forget it!”

After this Dennis, the Sunday-school teacher, the man whose golden slippers were awaiting him in the sweet by-and-by, began to lie awake at night and wrestle with the problem:  “Is a man ever justified in breaking the sixth commandment?” The camp held that Tom bore a charmed life.  Men had tried to kill him more than once, and had perished ingloriously in the attempt.  His coolness and courage were indisputable.  There are moments in a lumberman’s business when nothing will save an almost impossible situation but the instant exercise of the most daring and devil-may-care pluck, determination, and skill.  Tom was never found wanting at such moments.  To see him “ride a log” was a sight to inspire admiration and respect in a Texas broncho-buster.  To kill such a superb animal might well rack a simple and guileless cowboy whose name was—­Dennis.

It is relevant to mention that Dennis, the dog, licked the hand that beat him, fawned upon the foot that kicked him, and rendered unto his lord and master implicit and invariable obedience.  The Siwash, his former owner, had trained him to retrieve, and of this Tom took shameless advantage.  He would throw his hat or a glove or a stick into the middle of a rapid, and the gallant Dennis would dash into the swirling waters, regardless of colliding logs, fanged rocks, or spiky stumps.  One day the dog got caught.  Tom, with an oath, leapt on to the nearest log, from that to another and another till he reached the poor beast, whom he released with incredible skill and audacity, returning as he had come, followed by the dog.  The boys yelled their appreciation of this astounding feat.  Jimmy Doolan asked—­

“What in thunder made ye do that, Tom?”

Tom scowled.

“I dunno,” he answered.  “Dennis Brown knows that I think the world of that cur.”