Only thirty yards now lie between the dingo and his salvation—the good thick scrub that will swallow him up; but—the breath of the pursuer blows hot upon him. Throwing his head over his shoulder for the fraction of a second, the desperate beast sees that only by a miracle can he escape. The adversary is upon his quarters, and in another second the brute’s fangs will be buried in his back. It is a supreme moment. Now or never! Making a super-canine effort, the fear-stricken thing draws away from its enemy in the last dozen strides. Saved, saved! Alas, alas! Right at the very fringe, and within a single step of safety, he tumbles in a heap, and with a convulsive gasp rolls over and gives up the ghost: the prolonged exertions have broken his heart.
You can work your will on the hunted one now, Brindle: no need to fear the vicious snap that was reserved for you should the worst happen. But the dog’s instincts inform him that all power of resistance has gone from that mute and still form; indeed, he has no strength to worry should the call be made: the last spurt has left him without a vestige of strength. And so, when Joe appeared upon the scene a few minutes later, it was to behold the motionless dingo, and by his side, with lolling tongue and cavernous mouth, the panting and exhausted Brindle.
In a moment the boy has slid from his horse, and is dancing a grotesque fandango, expressive of his unbounded joy. But, when in a calmer moment he understood the tragedy of it from the dingo’s side of things, a feeling of compassion possessed him, yet joy persisted. "He’s a noble fellow, and has given me the grandest sport I’ve ever had. I’m sorry, and yet I’m glad," quoth the lad. "What’ll old Nosey say to this! My stars, ain’t the boys out of it! Wonder where the poor beggars have got to. Hope nothing’s happened to them. Poor beast!" apostrophising the dingo, "you made a royal struggle and deserved to escape, but the fates were against you. And you, good old Brindle; my word, you’ve covered yourself with glory, sir! Poor fellow, you are done up; can only blink your pleasure; can’t wag even the tip of your tail. Good doggie, I’m proud of you!"
"I’m blest if I don’t skin the dingo," exclaimed he, after a moment’s pause. "I’ll keep it as a trophy. Something to look at in after years when I’m a grey-beard," chuckled the youth. So saying, he whipped out his knife. Joe had never before skinned a dingo, but as he had performed that office on many a wallaby and ’possum he was fairly expert, and in a few minutes had achieved his object. Rolling the pelt in the approved manner, the youth bound it with a stout piece of cord which he extracted from his pocket, and fastened it to the saddle ring.