I only had Dad's account of what happened next, as it was out of sight from the window. He was firmly of the opinion that Bill had bitten off more than he could chew, and that Bingo was about to do the same. Dad took up a safe position, looking over our wall, and saw Bingo preparing to attack.
Bill wagged his famous index finger at the dog. "You're not biting me, sirree. You come over here and I'll just fetch you one." Here, Bill revealed a gnarled stick, about three feet long. He didn't wield it aggressively but held it at his side. This seemed to stir Bingo into a decision, and he lunged forward with a hoarse, throaty snarl.
There was confusion about what happened between Bingo's aggressive lurch and his sudden acquiescence. Bill later said he thought the dog glimpsed the stick and had second thoughts, but my father disagreed.
"That dog was headed for Bill's leg, as sure as eggs is eggs. He'd made his move! Fully committed!" Here, my dad raised his eyebrows for emphasis and reached for a football simile. "Look, it was like a goalkeeper who dives full stretch across the goalmouth to stop a shot. He can't go backwards. If he misreads the ball, he has to watch it float in—right?"
I had to agree, having seen a succession of Port Vale goalkeepers do exactly that.
"Right! That's what the dog did, only it stopped in mid-flight. I'm telling you—as sure as if it hit a wall. Stopped dead, turned round, and left Bill alone."
When he heard Bill's account of the stick saving him, Dad shook his head vigorously. "Absolutely not. The stick was what made the dog go for him in the first place!"
If you listened to Dad, Bingo had somehow stopped dead in the air. The dog then became almost cowed, wagging his tail uncertainly and licking his chops in the way dogs do when caught digging up flower beds—his ears flat, his eyes peering up from his lowered head, this time in uncertainty.