He had lost, moreover, his early liking for his captor, and he wanted to go home.

At first tug of the rope the puppy braced all four feet, and pulled back. A tired-looking man, passing, in a still more tired-looking motor runabout, slowed his car at sight of the puppy’s resistance, and scanned Buff appraisingly.

A second and more vehement yank of the rope, accompanied by a mouthful of profanity from the hired man, brought renewed resistance from Buff, and brought the stranger’s slowing car to a complete stop.

Buff braced his feet and sought in vain to get some sort of purchase for his claws on the stone pavement. His conductor gave the rope a vicious jerk and struck the puppy over the side of the head.

This was the first blow received by Buff in all his short life. He did not at all grasp its meaning. But it hurt like the mischief, and it set his delicate ears to ringing. Incidentally, it brought the stranger, at one jump, out of his car and on to the narrow pathway.

“You idiot!” exhorted he, striding up to the farm-hand. “Don’t you know any better than to hit a collie over the head? It might——”

“Don’t you know no better’n to butt in?” retorted the wrathful hired man. “I’ll make this mangy cuss mind me, if I have to bust ev’ry bone in his wuthless carcass!”

By way of emphasising his intention, he lifted the amazed Buff clean off the ground on the end of the rope, and drew back one large-booted foot for a drop-kick at the swinging youngster that had dared to disobey him. The kick might well have smashed every rib in the soft young body, besides rupturing its victim. But it did not reach its mark.

The tired-looking man did two things, and he did them in practically the same gesture. With his left hand he jerked the rope from the calloused hand that held it, and lowered Buff gently to earth. With his right he caught the farm-hand deftly by the nape of the neck, spun him around, and bestowed upon him two swift but effective kicks.

Both kicks smote the amazed labourer approximately at the point where his short jacket’s hem met the seat of his trousers. As his assailant at the same time released his hold of the shirt-collar, his victim collapsed in a blasphemous heap at the gutter-edge.

Buff had been watching the brief exhibition with keen interest. Gradually it had been dawning on his unsophisticated mind that his escort was trying in some way to harm him, and that the stranger had not only averted the harm, but was punishing the aggressor.

So, in his babyhood, had Nina flown at a stable cat which had scratched Buff’s too-inquisitive nose. Once more the puppy knew the glad thrill of having a protector.

As the fallen man scrambled to his feet, the stranger felt a cold and grateful little nose thrust into his palm. Instinctively—and with unconscious proprietorship—his hand dropped lightly on the silken head of the dog. But he kept his tired eyes unwaveringly on the man whom he had assaulted.

The latter was on his feet again, swearing and gesticulating. But, all at once, in the middle of a contemplated rush at his antagonist, he checked himself and looked worriedly up and down the deserted lane. In case of interference—in case of court proceedings—he might have trouble in explaining his possession of the dog. A dozen persons in court might well recognise the puppy as belonging to Shawemere. And there would be difficulties—all manner of difficulties—perhaps a jail term. Decidedly it was a moment for wile, rather than for force. There were worse things than a kick. Jail was one of them.

“If you’re so stuck on the pup, why don’t you buy him?” he whined. “’Stead of pickin’ on a poor man what’s got a livin’ to earn? He’s for sale.”

“I’m not buying livestock——” began the stranger.

Then he paused. The silken head under his hand shifted, and the cold little nose again nuzzled his palm.

“If you ain’t buyin’,” retorted the farm-hand, “give him back to me, and I’ll take him to where I c’n git an offer on him.”

He snatched the rope before the tired-looking man was aware of the intention. But Buff was aware of it—well aware of it. As the rough fingers grabbed at his collar, the youngster growled fiercely and launched himself at the tyrant.

“Good!” applauded the stranger, catching the angry puppy in mid-air and holding him under one arm. “He’s got pluck! That means you haven’t had him long. If you had, you’d have cowed or killed him, or made him mean and savage. He’s thoroughbred, too. What do you want for him? If the price is fair, I’ll buy. If it isn’t, I’ll carry him to the nearest police-station. Which is it to be?”

Out of a volley of indignant denial, punctuated by such stock phrases as, “I’m an honest man!” and the like, came at last the grunted words:

“Thutty dollars. He’s wuth a sight more. But he b’longs to my boy, and we’re movin’, so I gotta sell him, an——”

“Here’s the cash,” interrupted the stranger, taking out some greasy notes. “But, next time you steal a dog of this kind, just remember that thirty dollars is a fool’s offer. It proves the dog is stolen. There’s no use asking whom you stole him from. If there were, I might be able to return him. I had no idea of cluttering my life with anything again—even with a dog. But if I don’t, you’ll maltreat him. And he’s too good for that. There are easier ways, you know, of showing how much inferior you are to a dog, than by kicking him.”

The stranger was doling out bill after bill from his thin roll. Finishing, he stuck the rest of his money back into his pocket, picked up Buff, and started for his car. Midway, he hesitated; and looked back at the gaping and muttering farm-hand.

“By the way,” he said carelessly, “think twice before you steal again. Not for the sake of your alleged soul, but because it’s liable to land you in a cell. Nothing is valuable enough to steal. A cell isn’t a pleasant place to live in, either. I know,” he added as an afterthought, “because I’ve just come out of one.”

He lifted Buff into the car, cranked the muddy and battered little vehicle, and climbed aboard. Then, as the farm-hand still gaped at him with a new respect in the bulgingly bloodshot eyes, the stranger called back:

“If you decide to tell this dog’s owner what has become of him, my name is Trent—Michael Trent. And I live at Boone Lake, about fifty miles south of here. At least, I used to—and I’m on my way back there.”

It was Buff’s first ride. For a few minutes it startled him to see the countryside running backwards on either side of him, and to feel the bumping vibration and throb of the car under his feet. But almost at once he felt the joy of the new sensation, as does the average dog that gets a chance to motor.

Besides, this rescuer of his was a most interesting person, a man whose latent strength appealed to Buff’s canine hero-worship; a man, too, who was unhappy. And, with true collie perception, Buff realised and warmed to the human’s unhappiness.

Added to all this, Trent had a delightful way of taking one hand from the steering-wheel from time to time and patting or rumpling the puppy’s head. Once the strong slender fingers found the name tag.

“‘Buff,’ hey?” murmured Trent. “Is that your name or the colour of the goods that were marked by this tag? How about it, Buff?”

He accented the last word. In response, Buff’s tail began to wag, and one forepaw went up to the man’s knee.

“‘Buff’ it is,”