white teeth clashing shut in two lightning snaps as Brent jerked back. He retreated again to the length of his chain and stood there, bristling with rage and fear.
Brent’s insane temper flared at the sting where the sharp little teeth had grazed his thumb. He stepped over to the pup, raising his heavy glove and bringing the gauntlet down across his head and ears, Flash tried to fight, but the glove bruised his lips and ears and when he cowered down on the floor, half dazed by the rain of blows, Brent kicked him under the table and went outside.
When the two came in once more, Milt Harmon, the ranger, was with them. As the three men talked, Flash lay in his corner, his head resting, wolf fashion, flat between his paws, and regarded their every move.
Harmon did not fit in either of his previous classifications, so he classed him by himself. Here in the room were men that represented each of the three divisions under which he would place all men as he met them—those he tolerated, those he hated with a savage intensity and those he loved. His present feeling for Harmon typified his later attitude toward the great majority of men. The mass
