"Is that you, Frisky?" I cried, springing to the window, with some misgiving as to the outcry. But my worst fears were not as bad as what met my eyes.
There beneath the window, limp upon the snow, with his fore paws on the banking, as though imploring help of me, and with blood streaming from a dozen wounds, was Master Frisky. His eyes were so blinded with tears, that he did not see me, and he was breathing with quick sobs, each like a last breath.
"Oh, Frisky!" I cried, "they have killed you." In a minute I was by his side, lifting him tenderly in my arms, heedless of the blood that freely stained my best suit.
I carried him into the house, closely followed by big Mike Maloney, who had come running up, gun in hand.
"Oh mister," cried tender-hearted Mike, with tears in his eyes, "I did it, but I wouldn't for the world if I had known. The sun blinded me, and I thought he was a fox."
"You great simpleton," I cried, "run for the dog doctor at once;" and poor Mike started at the top of his speed.
I got some warm water and a sponge, and washed the blood from Frisky's eyes and nose that he might see and breathe better; but he could only gasp and sob like a sick child. You may think it queer that a dog should sob, but they do when in great pain.
Poor Frisky lay panting and sobbing while
