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Suddenly, thrown into a new panic, new frenzy, by the sight of the halting car—such a juggernaut to his dimming eyes—he turned to that fence for the hundredth time and tried to climb it, dragging the skunk-trap, with him, but was pulled back by the six-foot chain ending in the indomitable clog and bolt that anchored the trap to earth.

“Oo-ooo! Ah-ah-ah-kak!” The last note of earth’s agony was in that gibbering howl which told of a hind-leg almost torn from its socket, as the wild thing fell into the ditch again and helplessly rolled there, biting at his slim, white-stockinged, blood-wet leg—at the trap, at the humbling dust all lashed to lather by his fine red brush and the foam of his dripping mouth.

“Oh! I c-can’t stand it. I can’t stand it. Do something! Do-o something.” Una was standing upright in the car, pale and trembling in the silky, rose-lined, fur coat which Andrew’s wife had tossed into the automobile at the last moment, with a pleading: “Put it on, my lamb, the morn’s chilly an’ ye look ‘blenchit’,” when she had come in, shivering, from the garden—from experimenting with the radio ring.