So great had been Flea’s excitement at the catching of the pig that she had given no heed to the dog.  Flukey had handed the little fellow to her, and she had let him go.

Suddenly an appalling spectacle rose before her.  On an elevated spot, a few feet from the greased pole, Snatchet stood poised in view of hundreds of curious eyes.  His short stubby tail had straightened out like a stick.  His nose was lowered almost to the ground.  Each yellow hair on his scarred back had risen separate and apart from one another, while his beady eyes glistened greedily.  Directly in front of him, staring back with feathers ruffled and drooping wings, was a little brown hen, escaped from her coop.  She was eying Snatchet impudently, daring him to approach her by perking her wee head saucily first on one side and then on the other.  Snatchet, pressed on by hunger beating at his lean sides, slid rigidly a pace nearer.  A cry went up from a childish voice.

“He’ll kill my Queen Bess!  Father—­Oh!  Father!”

Flukey’s voice, calling to his dog, rose high above the clamor.  Suddenly the little hen turned tail and flew across over the soft earth, uttering frightened cackles; but her flight was slow compared to Snatchet’s.  He came scurrying behind her, snapping a tail feather loose with each onward bound, utterly oblivious of the two strong voices calling his name.

The little hen wove a precarious path through coops of chattering chickens, and Snatchet, bent upon his prey, added to the din.  He had no way of knowing the twists and turns to be taken by his small brown victim, and it was only by making sharp corners that Queen Bess kept clear of the snapping teeth.  Men were running to and fro for something to beat off the yellow invader.  The girl’s voice had settled to a cry, and, just as Flukey, panting and tired, reached the dog, Snatchet snapped up the hen, shook her fiercely, and settled down to his meal.  In an instant Flukey had dragged the beating body from his teeth, kicked him soundly with his bare foot, and held out the dead hen to a man whose face was darkened by anger.  The young mistress of the feathered queen was clinging, sobbing, to his hand.

“Is that your dog?” Flea heard the man ask, pointing to Snatchet under the squatter boy’s arm.

“Yep.”

“Do you understand that he killed my little girl’s prize hen?”

“The dog ought to die, too!” cried a voice from the people.

Her brother’s sorrowful attitude made Flea press Flukey’s arm soothingly.

“So he ought to die!” said another.

“He were hungry,” explained Flukey, turning on Snatchet’s accuser.  “Mister, if ye’ll let my dorg live—­”

Before he could finish the child had interrupted him.  “That dog ought to die for killing my Bess!”

Flea pushed past Flukey and stood before the little girl.  “Kid, I don’t blame ye for cryin’ for yer hen,” she began; “but my brother ain’t got no dog but Snatchet, an’ if ye’ll let him live I’ll give ye this bit of gold I got for catchin’ the pig.”