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 The man was a butcher and the meat was the refuse from a steer that he had killed that afternoon.

Pierre tasted a piece and it made him gag so he spit it out. Then he tried another piece, but that was just as bad.

So he went all through the pile trying vainly to find something to his liking. At last he sat down on his tail before the sorry meat and a great sense of homesickness and loneliness came over him. It was so great that although he was an Airedale and a dog with a stout heart, yet he lifted his muzzle and howled dismally.

Pierre was so wrapt in grief and so overpowered with a sense of his loss that he did not even notice the Killer until he heard a deep growl almost beside him. Wheeling sharply, he came face to face with the ugliest-looking old bulldog that