“Stop it, damn you!” shouted the rider, slashing at them with the zeal of unrestrained fury.  “Caesar, you infernal brute, stop it, will you?  I’ll kill you if you don’t!”

But Caesar was deaf to all threats and quite unconscious of the fact that his master and not his enemy was responsible for the flail-like strokes of the whirling lash.  They shifted from beneath it instinctively, but they fought deliriously on.

And at that the man with the whip completely lost his self-control.  He set to work to thrash and thrash the fighting animals till one or other of them—­or himself—­should become exhausted.

It developed into a horrible competition organized and conducted by the man’s blind fury, and in what fashion it would have ended it would be hard to say.  But, luckily for all three, there came at length an interruption.  Someone—­a woman—­came swiftly out of the Vicarage garden carrying a bedroom jug.  She advanced without a pause upon the seething, infuriated group.

“It’s no good beating them,” she said, in a voice which, though somewhat hurried, was one of clear command.  “Get out of the way, and be ready to catch your dog when they come apart!”

The man glanced round for an instant, his face white with passion.  “I’ll kill the brutes!” he declared.

“Indeed you won’t,” she returned promptly.  “Stand away now or you will be drenched!”

As she spoke she raised her jug above the struggling animals.  Her face also shone white in the wintry dusk, but her actions denoted unwavering resolution.

“Now!” she said; and, since he would not move, she flung the icy water without compunction over the dogs and him also.

“Damnation!” he cried violently.  But she broke in upon him.  “Quick!  Quick!  Now’s the time!  Grab your dog!  I’ll catch Mike!”

The urgency of the order compelled compliance.  Almost in spite of himself he stooped to obey.  And so it came to pass that five seconds later, Caesar was being mercilessly thrashed by his enraged master, while the real culprit was being dragged, cursing breathlessly, from the scene.

It was a brutal thrashing and wholly undeserved.  Caesar, awaking to the horror of it, howled his anguish; but no amount of protest on his part made the smallest impression upon the wielder of the whip.  It continued to descend upon his writhing body with crashing force till he rolled upon the ground in agony.

Even then the punishment would not have ceased, but for a second interruption.  It was the woman from the Vicarage garden again; but she burst upon the scene this time with something of the effect of an avalanche.  She literally whirled between the man and his victim.  She caught his upraised arm.

“Oh, you brute!” she cried.  “You brute!”

He stiffened in her hold.  They stood face to face.  Caesar crept whining and shivering to the side of the road.

Slowly the man’s arm fell to his side, still caught in that quivering grasp.  He spoke in a voice that struggled boyishly between resentment and shame.  “The dog’s my own.”