But, as he rose, the collie was at him.

For an instant, the furry whirlwind was snarling murderously at his throat, and the man was beating convulsively at this unexpected new enemy.
Then, almost before the collie could slash to the bone one of the hairy big hands that thrust him backward, Gavin Brice had reached the spot in a single bound, had shoved the dog to one side and was at the man.
"Clear out, puppy!" he shouted, imperatively.

"This is my meat! When people get to slinging knives, there's no more sense in handling them with gloves!" The debonaire laziness was gone from Brice's voice and manner.
His face was dead-white.

His eyes were blazing.

His mouth was a mere gash in the grim face.