“Drive ’em into the barn-yard!” was the cry.

Now and then there was a fearful bang and a howl of death-agony, as some dog tried to break through the encircling men, who yelled and cursed as they closed in on the trembling brutes that slunk together and crept on; for it is said, every sheep-killing dog knows his fate if caught, and will make little effort to escape.  With them went Satan, through the barn-yard gate, where they huddled in a corner—­a shamed and terrified group.  A tall overseer stood at the gate.

“Ten of ’em!” he said grimly.

He had been on the lookout for just such a tragedy, for there had recently been a sheep-killing raid on several farms in that neighborhood, and for several nights he had had a lantern hung out on the edge of the woods to scare the dogs away; but a drunken farm-hand had neglected his duty that Christmas Eve.

“Yassuh, an’ dey’s jus’ sebenteen dead sheep out dar,” said a negro.

“Look at the little one,” said a tall boy who looked like the overseer; and Satan knew that he spoke of him.

“Go back to the house, son,” said the overseer, “and tell your mother to give you a Christmas present I got for you yesterday.”  With a glad whoop the boy dashed away, and in a moment dashed back with a brand-new .32 Winchester in his hand.

The dark hour before dawn was just breaking on Christmas Day.  It was the hour when Satan usually rushed upstairs to see if his little mistress was asleep.  If he were only at home now, and if he only had known how his little mistress was weeping for him amid her playthings and his—­two new balls and a brass-studded collar with a silver plate on which was his name, Satan Dean; and if Dinnie could have seen him now, her heart would have broken; for the tall boy raised his gun.  There was a jet of smoke, a sharp, clean crack, and the funeral dog started on the right way at last toward his dead master.  Another crack, and the yellow cur leaped from the ground and fell kicking.  Another crack and another, and with each crack a dog tumbled, until little Satan sat on his haunches amid the writhing pack, alone.  His time was now come.  As the rifle was raised, he heard up at the big house the cries of children; the popping of fire-crackers; tooting of horns and whistles and loud shouts of “Christmas Gif’, Christmas Gif’!” His little heart beat furiously.  Perhaps he knew just what he was doing; perhaps it was the accident of habit; most likely Satan simply wanted to go home—­but when that gun rose, Satan rose too, on his haunches, his tongue out, his black eyes steady and his funny little paws hanging loosely—­and begged!  The boy lowered the gun.

“Down, sir!” Satan dropped obediently, but when the gun was lifted again, Satan rose again, and again he begged.

“Down, I tell you!” This time Satan would not down, but sat begging for his life.  The boy turned.

“Papa, I can’t shoot that dog.”  Perhaps Satan had reached the stern old overseer’s heart.  Perhaps he remembered suddenly that it was Christmas.  At any rate, he said gruffly: