He left a line of smiling testimonials in his wake.
But if the days were proving satisfactory, so much could not be said of the nights.

Even the phenomenal luck that followed his dog failed to keep up his enthusiasm.
"You ain't a nachrul sport," complained Ricks.

"That's your trouble.
When the last fight was on, you set on the fence and listened at a' ole idiot scrapin' a fiddle down in the valley." Sandy made a feeble defense, but he knew in his soul it was so.
Affairs reached a climax one night in an old barn on the outskirts of a town.

A fight was about to begin when Sandy discovered Ricks judiciously administering a sedative to the enemy's dog.
Then understanding dawned upon him, and his rage was elemental.

With a valor that lacked the better part of discretion, he hurled himself through the crowd and fell upon Ricks.
An hour later, bruised, bloody, and vanquished, he stumbled along through the dreary night.