A glass of wine once lost a kingdom, a nail turned the tide of a mighty battle, and a woman's smile once upon a time destroyed the homes of a million people.

Thus have trivial things played their potent parts in the history of human lives, yet these things Peter did not know--nor that his greatest hour had come.
At last he rose from his squatting posture, and stood upon his feet.
He was not a beautiful pup, this Peter Pied-Bot--or Peter Club-foot, as Jolly Roger McKay--who lived over in the big cedar swamp--had named him when he gave Peter to the girl.

He was, in a way, an accident and a homely one at that.

His father was a blue-blooded fighting Airedale who had broken from his kennel long enough to commit a MESALLIANCE with a huge big footed and peace-loving Mackenzie hound--and Peter was the result.

He wore the fiercely bristling whiskers of his Airedale father at the age of three months; his ears were flappy and big, his tail was knotted, and his legs were ungainly and loose, with huge feet at the end of them--so big and heavy that he stumbled frequently, and fell on his nose.