His bleared eyes caught a flash of the Mistress's white dress, on the walk, fifteen feet in front of him and a yard or more to one side.
In a frame of mind when every newcomer was a probable tormenter, the mongrel resolved to meet this white-clad foe, head-on.

He swerved, with a stagger, from his bee-line of travel; growled hideously, and sprang full at her.
The Mistress paused, for an instant, in the middle of the sidewalk, to find out the reason for the sudden din that had assailed her ears as she emerged from the post-office.

In that brief moment, she caught the multiple-bellowed phrase of "Mad dog!" and saw the black brute charging down upon her.
There was no time to dart back into the shelter of the building or to gain the lesser safety of the car.

For the charging mongrel was not five feet away.
The Mistress stood stock-still; holding her hands at a level with her throat.

She did not cry out; nor faint.