As for the other inhabitants of the big house, their minds were full of the events of the season:  de luxe hunting parties, more society events than hunts; lunches in the woods served by uniformed butlers; launch rides up the river; arriving and departing guests.  Only one of them, except Devant himself, gave the gun-shy dog a thought.  Marian Devant came out to visit him in his disgrace.  She stooped before him as she had done on that other and happier day, and again caught his head between her hands.  But his eyes did not meet hers, for in his dim way he knew he was not now what he had been.

“I don’t believe he’s yellow—­inside!” she declared, looking up at Thompson, her cheeks flushed.

Thompson shook his head.

“I tried him with a gun, Miss Marian,” he declared.  “I just showed it to him, and he ran into his kennel.”

“I’ll go get mine.  He won’t run from me.”

But at sight of her small gun it all came back.  Again he seemed to hear the explosion that had shattered his nerves.  The Terror had entered his very soul.  In spite of her pleading, he made for his kennel.  Even the girl turned away from him now.  And as he lay panting in the shelter of his kennel he knew that never again would men look at him as they had looked, or life be sweet to him as it had been.

Then there came to Oak Knob an old man to see Thompson.  He had been on many seas, he had fought in a dozen wars, and had settled at last on a little truck farm near by.  Somewhere, in his life full of adventure and odd jobs, he had trained dogs and horses.  His face was lined and seamed, his hair was white, his eyes piercing, blue and kind.  Wade Swygert was his name.

“There’s been dirty work,” he said, when he looked at the dog.  “I’ll take him if you’re goin’ to give him away.”

Give him away—­who had been Championship hope!

Marian Devant came out and looked into the face of the old man, shrewdly, understandingly.

“Can you cure him?” she demanded.

“I doubt it, miss,” was the sturdy answer.

“You will try?”

The blue eyes lighted up.  “Yes, I’ll try.”

“Then you can have him.  And—­if there’s any expense——­”

“Come, Comet,” said the old man.

That night, in a neat, humble house, Comet ate supper placed before him by a stout old woman, who had followed this old man to the ends of the world.  That night he slept before their fire.  Next day he followed the old man all about the place.  Several days and nights passed this way, then, while he lay before the fire, old Swygert came in with a gun.  At sight of it Comet sprang to his feet.  He tried to rush out of the room, but the doors were closed.  Finally, he crawled under the bed.

Every night after that Swygert got out the gun, until he crawled under the bed no more.  Finally, one day the man fastened the dog to a tree in the yard, then came out with a gun.  A sparrow lit in a tree, and he shot it.  Comet tried to break the rope.  All his panic had returned; but the report had not shattered him as that other did, for the gun was loaded light.