which had been wreaked upon her.  It was one long complaint, and some of it might have been about her health, for she sniffed and coughed a great deal and her chest seemed always to hurt her from the way she had of continually and gingerly pressing the palm of her hand to it.  Sometimes, however, she would cease her complaining, and love and mother him, uttering occasional series of gentle mellow sounds that were like croonings.

Hers was the only hand of affection that was laid on him at Cedarwild, and she was ever gentle, never pinching him, never pulling his ears.  By the same token, he was the only friend she had; and he came to look forward to meeting her in the course of the morning work—­and this, despite that every meeting always concluded in a scene, when she fought with her keeper against being taken away.  Her cries and protests would give way to whimperings and wailings, while the men about laughed at the strangeness of the love-affair between her and the Irish terrier.

But Harris Collins tolerated, even encouraged, their friendship.

“The two sour-balls get along best together,” he said.  “And it does them good.  Gives them something to live for, and that way lies health.  But some day, mark my words, she’ll turn on him and give him what for, and their friendship will get a terrible smash.”

And half of it he spoke with the voice of prophecy, and, though she never turned on Michael, the day in the world was written when their friendship would truly receive a terrible smash.

“Now seals are too wise,” Collins explained one day, in a sort of extempore lecture to several of his apprentice trainers.  “You’ve just got to toss fish to them when they perform.  If you don’t, they won’t, and there’s an end of it.  But you can’t depend on feeding dainties to dogs, for instance, though you can make a young, untrained pig perform creditably by means of a nursing bottle hidden up your sleeve.”

“All you have to do is think it over.  Do you think you can make those greyhounds extend themselves with the promise of a bite of meat?  It’s the whip that makes them extend.—­Look over there at Billy Green.  There ain’t another way to teach that dog that trick.  You can’t love her into doing it.  You can’t pay her to do it.  There’s only one way, and that’s make her.”

Billy Green, at the moment, was training a tiny, nondescript, frizzly-haired dog.  Always, on the stage, he made a hit by drawing from his pocket a tiny dog that would do this particular trick.  The last one had died from a wrenched back, and he was now breaking in a new one.  He was catching the little mite by the hind-legs and tossing it up in the air, where, making a half-flip and descending head first, it was supposed to alight with its forefeet on his hand and there balance itself, its hind feet and body above it in the air.  Again and again he stooped, caught her hind-legs and flung her up into the half-turn.