"Look out for vermin!" cautioned Curley, standing on tiptoe to peer
in through the close-spaced iron bars.
They forgot the dog. The jail, for the moment, challenged all their
waking senses, the olfactory by no means least.
"Can you see anything?" asked Byng.
Before Crothers could answer him, a snarl, then a yap, then a quick,
determined growl gave warning of the terrier's interest in something
else than fleas.
He had been scratching himself peacefully a moment earlier; now,
like a bower anchor taking charge, he ripped the chain through Byng's
hand and was off--chin, back and tail in one straight, striving line--
in full chase of a pariah.
The yellow cur yapped its agony of fear; the nearest hundred and
odd mangy monsters of the gutter took up the chorus; within five
seconds of the start there was the Puncher's mascot racing after one
abominable scavenger, and after him in just as hot pursuit there raced
the whole street-cleaning force of Adra--tongues out, eyes blazing,
and their mean thin barks all working overtime.
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