One of these forepaws was twisted; it had been broken.
"You poor devil!" said David aloud.
He sat down on a birch log within six feet of the end of the chain, and looked steadily into the big husky's one bloodshot eye as he said again: "You poor devil!" Baree, the dog, did not understand.

It puzzled him that this man did not carry a club.

He was used to clubs.

So far back as he could remember the club had been the one dominant thing in his life.

It was a club that had closed his eye.