The wild-dog was what he was, a wild-dog, cringing and sneaking, his ears for ever down, his tail for ever between his legs, for ever apprehending fresh misfortune and ill-treatment to fall on him, for ever fearing and resentful, fending off threatened hurt with lips curling malignantly from his puppy fangs, cringing under a blow, squalling his fear and his pain, and ready always for a treacherous slash if luck and safety favoured.
The wild-dog was maturer than Jerry, larger-bodied, and wiser in wickedness; but Jerry was blue-blooded, right-selected, and valiant.

The wild-dog had come out of a selection equally rigid; but it was a different sort of selection.

The bush ancestors from whom he had descended had survived by being fear-selected.

They had never voluntarily fought against odds.

In the open they had never attacked save when the prey was weak or defenceless.