he turned his back upon the problem, and sat watching the flock, his fine tail spread, slack and dejected, upon the dewy turf.
Obviously a mongrel, Bran was, like many mongrels, an altogether magnificent specimen of doghood. Fine breeds had gone to his making. His mother had been a big Yukon sledge dog, part Husky, part Newfoundland, with a strong strain of the wolf quite near the surface. His father had been a cross between collie and Airedale; and an expert might have picked out marks of all these strong strains in his physical make-up, although the blend was perfect, unless, perhaps, for some contrast between the intelligent, benevolent breadth of his skull above the eyes and the wolfish rake of his long, powerful jaws.
Heredity plays some queer tricks, no less in dogs than in men; and in Bran's temperament the distinctive traits of his varied ancestry lay in tangled and often sharply conflicting strands, instead of being wrought into a harmonious whole.
Now, balked in his hunting and in a distinctly bad humour, he revealed by the expression in his eyes as he sat watching the peaceful flock among the moonlit hillocks and stumps, a mood that grew to be something far from benevolent. Little by little his lips drew back, disclosing his long, white fangs.
Stealthily, almost imperceptibly to himself, a
