"I said don't break them teeth," the faro-dealer repeated more ominously
than before.
But if it was a bluff he intended, it did not work. Scott never desisted
from his efforts, though he looked up coolly and asked:
"Your dog?"
The faro-dealer grunted.
"Then get in here and break this grip."
"Well, stranger," the other drawled irritatingly, "I don't mind telling
you that's something I ain't worked out for myself. I don't know how to
turn the trick."
"Then get out of the way," was the reply, "and don't bother me. I'm
busy."
Tim Keenan continued standing over him, but Scott took no further notice
of his presence. He had managed to get the muzzle in between the jaws on
one side, and was trying to get it out between the jaws on the other
side. This accomplished, he pried gently and carefully, loosening the
jaws a bit at a time, while Matt, a bit at a time, extricated White
Fang's mangled neck.
"Stand by to receive your dog," was Scott's peremptory order to
Cherokee's owner.
The faro-dealer stooped down obediently and got a firm hold on Cherokee.
"Now!" Scott warned, giving the final pry.
The dogs were drawn apart, the bull-dog struggling vigorously.
"Take him away," Scott commanded, and Tim Keenan dragged Cherokee back
into the crowd.
White Fang made several ineffectual efforts to get up.
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