Harris Collins himself nodded the dark youth-god up to him, and turned an inquiring and estimating gaze on Michael.

“The Del Mar dog, sir,” said the youth-god.

Collins’s eyes brightened, and he looked Michael over more carefully.

“Do you know what he can do?” he queried.

The youth shook his head.

“Harry was a keen one,” Collins went on, apparently to the youth-god but mostly for his own benefit, being given to thinking aloud.  “He picked this dog as a winner.  And now what can he do?  That’s the question.  Poor Harry’s gone, and we don’t know what he can do.—­Take off the chain.”

Released Michael regarded the master-god and waited for what might happen.  A squall of pain from one of the bears across the ring hinted to him what he might expect.

“Come here,” Collins commanded in his cold, hard tones.

Michael came and stood before him.

“Lie down!”

Michael lay down, although he did it slowly, with advertised reluctance.

“Damned thoroughbred!” Collins sneered at him.  “Won’t put any pep into your motions, eh?  Well, we’ll take care of that.—­Get up!—­Lie down!—­Get up!—­Lie down!—­Get up!”

His commands were staccato, like revolver shots or the cracks of whips, and Michael obeyed them in his same slow, reluctant way.

“Understands English, at any rate,” said Collins.

“Wonder if he can turn the double flip,” he added, expressing the golden dream of all dog-trainers.  “Come on, we’ll try him for a flip.  Put the chain on him.  Come over here, Jimmy.  Put another lead on him.”

Another reform-school graduate youth obeyed, snapping a girth about Michael’s loins, to which was attached a thin rope.

“Line him up,” Collins commanded.  “Ready?—­Go!”

And the most amazing, astounding indignity was wreaked upon Michael.  At the word “Go!”, simultaneously, the chain on his collar jerked him up and back in the air, the rope on his hindquarters jerked that portion of him under, forward, and up, and the still short stick in Collins’s hand hit him under the lower jaw.  Had he had any previous experience with the manoeuvre, he would have saved himself part of the pain at least by springing and whirling backward in the air.  As it was, he felt as if being torn and wrenched apart while at the same time the blow under his jaw stung him and almost dazed him.  And, at the same time, whirled violently into the air, he fell on the back of his head in the sawdust.

Out of the sawdust he soared in rage, neck-hair erect, throat a-snarl, teeth bared to bite, and he would have sunk his teeth into the flesh of the master-god had he not been the slave of cunning formula.  The two youths knew their work.  One tightened the lead ahead, the other to the rear, and Michael snarled and bristled his impotent wrath.  Nothing could he do, neither advance, nor retreat, nor whirl sideways.  The youth in front by the chain prevented him from attacking the youth behind, and the youth behind, with the rope, prevented him from attacking the youth in front, and both prevented him from attacking Collins, whom he knew incontrovertibly to be the master of evil and hurt.