<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></SPAN>CHAPTER V<br/> FOR A BIT OF RIBBON</h2>
<p>Lad had never been in a city or in a crowd.
To him the universe was bounded by the soft
green mountains that hemmed in the valley
and the lake. The Place stood on the lake's edge,
its meadows running back to the forest. There
were few houses nearer than the mile-distant village.
It was an ideal home for such a dog as Lad, even
as Lad was an ideal dog for such a home.</p>
<p>A guest started all the trouble—a guest who
spent a week-end at The Place and who loved
dogs far better than he understood them. He made
much of Lad, being loud-voiced in his admiration
of the stately collie. Lad endured the caresses
when he could not politely elude them.</p>
<p>"Say!" announced the guest just before he departed,
"If I had a dog like Lad, I'd 'show' him—at
the big show at Madison Square, you know. It's
booked for next month. Why not take a chance
and exhibit him there? Think what it would mean
to you people to have a Westminster blue ribbon the
big dog had won! Why, you'd be as proud as
Punch!"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>It was a careless speech and well meant. No harm
might have come from it, had not the Master the
next day chanced upon an advance notice of the
dog-show in his morning paper. He read the press-agent's
quarter-column proclamation. Then he remembered
what the guest had said. The Mistress
was called into consultation. And it was she, as
ever, who cast the deciding vote.</p>
<p>"Lad is twice as beautiful as any collie we ever
saw at the Show," she declared, "and not one of
them is half as wise or good or <i>human</i> as he is.
And—a blue ribbon is the greatest honor a dog can
have, I suppose. It would be something to remember."</p>
<p>After which, the Master wrote a letter to a
friend who kept a show kennel of Airedales. He
received this answer:</p>
<blockquote><p>"I don't pretend to know anything, professionally,
about collies—Airedales being my specialty. But Lad
is a beauty, as I remember him, and his pedigree shows
a bunch of old-time champions. I'd risk it, if I were you.
If you are in doubt and don't want to plunge, why not
just enter him for the Novice class? That is a class for
dogs that have never before been shown. It will cost you
five dollars to enter him for a single class, like that. And
in the Novice, he won't be up against any champions or
other dogs that have already won prizes. That will make
it easier. It isn't a grueling competition like the 'Open'
or even the 'Limit.' If he wins as a Novice, you can
enter him, another time, in something more important.
I'm inclosing an application-blank for you to fill out<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</SPAN></span>
and send with your entrance-fee, to the secretary. You'll
find his address at the bottom of the blank. I'm showing
four of my Airedales there—so we'll be neighbors."</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Thus encouraged, the Master filled in the blank
and sent it with a check. And in due time word
was returned to him that "Sunnybank Lad" was
formally entered for the Novice class, at the Westminster
Kennel Club's annual show at Madison
Square Garden.</p>
<p>By this time both the Mistress and the Master
were infected with the most virulent type of the
Show Germ. They talked of little else than the
forthcoming Event. They read all the dog-show
literature they could lay hands on.</p>
<p>As for Lad, he was mercifully ignorant of what
was in store for him.</p>
<p>The Mistress had an inkling of his fated ordeal
when she read the Kennel Club rule that no dog
could be taken from the Garden, except at stated
times, from the moment the show should begin,
at ten <span class="smcap lowercase">A.M.</span> Wednesday morning, until the hour
of its close, at ten o'clock Saturday night. For
twelve hours a day—for four consecutive days—every
entrant must be there. By paying a forfeit
fee, dog owners might take their pets to some
nearby hotel or stable, for the remainder of the
night and early morning—a permission which, for
obvious reasons, would not affect most dogs.</p>
<p>"But Lad's never been away from home a night
in his life!" exclaimed the Mistress in dismay.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</SPAN></span>
"He'll be horribly lonely there, all that while—especially
at night."</p>
<p>By this time, with the mysterious foreknowledge
of the best type of thoroughbred collie, Lad began
to be aware that something unusual had crept into
the atmosphere of The Place. It made him restless,
but he did not associate it with himself—until the
Mistress took to giving him daily baths and
brushings.</p>
<p>Always she had brushed him once a day, to keep
his shaggy coat fluffy and burnished; and the lake
had supplied him with baths that made him as clean
as any human. But never had he undergone such
searching massage with comb and brush as was
now his portion. Never had he known such soap-infested
scrubbings as were now his daily fate, for
the week preceding the show.</p>
<p>As a result of these ministrations his wavy fur
was like spun silk in texture; and it stood out all
over him like the hair of a Circassian beauty in a
dime museum. The white chest and forepaws were
like snow. And his sides and broad back and
mighty shoulders shone like dark bronze.</p>
<p>He was magnificent—but he was miserable. He
knew well enough, now, that he was in some way
the center of all this unwonted stir and excitement
which pervaded The Place. He loathed change of
any sort—a thoroughbred collie being ever an ultra-conservative.
This particular change seemed to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</SPAN></span>
threaten his peace; also it kept his skin scraped with
combs and his hair redolent of nasty-smelling soaps.</p>
<p>To humans there was no odor at all in the naphtha
soap with which the Mistress lathered the dog, and
every visible atom of it was washed away at once
with warm water. But a human's sense of smell,
compared with the best type of collie's, is as a
purblind puppy's power of sight in comparison to a
hawk's.</p>
<p>All over the East, during these last days before
the Show, hundreds of high-bred dogs were undergoing
preparation for an exhibition which to the
beholder is a delight—and which to many of the
canine exhibits is a form of unremitting torture.
To do justice to the Master and the Mistress, they
had no idea—then—of this torture. Otherwise all
the blue ribbons ever woven would not have
tempted them to subject their beloved chum to it.</p>
<p>In some kennels Airedales were "plucked," by
hand, to rid them of the last vestige of the soft gray
outer coat which is an Airedale's chief natural beauty—and
no hair of which must be seen in a show.
"Plucking" a dog is like pulling live hairs from a
human head, so far as the sensation goes. But
show-traditions demand the anguish.</p>
<p>In other kennels, bull-terriers' white coats were
still further whitened by the harsh rubbing of pipeclay
into the tender skin. Sensitive tails and still
more sensitive ears were sandpapered, for the vic<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</SPAN></span>tims'
greater beauty—and agony. Ear-interiors,
also, were shaved close with safety-razors.</p>
<p>Murderous little "knife-combs" were tearing
blithely away at collies' ear-interiors and heads, to
"barber" natural furriness into painful and unnatural
trimness. Ears were "scrunched" until
their wearers quivered with stark anguish—to impart
the perfect tulip-shape; ordained by fashion
for collies.</p>
<p>And so on, through every breed to be exhibited—each
to its own form of torment; torments compared
to which Lad's gentle if bothersome brushing
and bathing were a pure delight!</p>
<p>Few of these ruthlessly "prepared" dogs were
personal pets. The bulk of them were "kennel
dogs"—dogs bred and raised after the formula
for raising and breeding prize hogs or chickens, and
with little more of the individual element in it. The
dogs were bred in a way to bring out certain arbitrary
"points" which count in show-judging, and
which change from year to year.</p>
<p>Brain, fidelity, devotion, the <i>human</i> side of a dog—these
were totally ignored in the effort to breed
the perfect physical animal. The dogs were kept in
kennel-buildings and in wire "runs" like so many
pedigreed cattle—looked after by paid attendants,
and trained to do nothing but to be the best-looking
of their kind, and to win ribbons. Some of them
did not know their owners by sight—having been
reared wholly by hirelings.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>The body was everything; the heart, the mind,
the namelessly delightful quality of the master-raised
dog—these were nothing. Such traits do not
win prizes at a bench-show. Therefore fanciers,
whose sole aim is to win ribbons and cups, do not
bother to cultivate them. (All of this is extraneous;
but may be worth your remembering, next time
you go to a dog-show.)</p>
<p>Early on the morning of the Show's first day,
the Mistress and the Master set forth for town
with Lad. They went in their little car, that the
dog might not risk the dirt and cinders of a train.</p>
<p>Lad refused to eat a mouthful of the tempting
breakfast set before him that day. He could not
eat, when foreboding was hot in his throat. He had
often ridden in the car. Usually he enjoyed the
ride; but now he crawled rather than sprang into
the tonneau. All the way up the drive, his great
mournful eyes were turned back toward the house
in dumb appeal. Every atom of spirit and gayety
and dash were gone from him. He knew he was
being taken away from the sweet Place he loved,
and that the car was whizzing him along toward
some dreaded fate. His heart was sick within him.</p>
<p>To the born and bred show-dog this is an everyday
occurrence—painful, but inevitable. To a
chum-dog like Lad, it is heartbreaking. The big
collie buried his head in the Mistress' lap and
crouched hopelessly at her feet as the car chugged
cityward.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>A thoroughly unhappy dog is the most thoroughly
unhappy thing on earth. All the adored
Mistress' coaxings and pettings could not rouse Lad
from his dull apathy of despair. This was the hour
when he was wont to make his stately morning
rounds of The Place, at the heels of one of his two
deities. And now, instead, these deities were carrying
him away to something direfully unpleasant. A
lesser dog would have howled or would have
struggled crazily to break away. Lad stood his
ground like a furry martyr, and awaited his fate.</p>
<p>In an hour or so the ride ended. The car drew
up at Madison Square—beside the huge yellowish
building, arcaded and Diana-capped, which goes by
the name of "Garden" and which is as nearly historic
as any landmark in feverish New York is
permitted to be.</p>
<p>Ever since the car had entered Manhattan
Island, unhappy Lad's nostrils had been aquiver with
a million new and troublous odors. Now, as the
car halted, these myriad strange smells were lost
in one—an all-pervasive scent of dog. To a human,
out there in the street, the scent was not observable.
To a dog it was overwhelming.</p>
<p>Lad, at the Master's word, stepped down from
the tonneau onto the sidewalk. He stood there,
dazedly sniffing. The plangent roar of the city
was painful to his ears, which had always been
attuned to the deep silences of forest and lake.
And through this din he caught the muffled noise<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</SPAN></span>
of the chorused barks and howls of many of his
own kind.</p>
<p>The racket that bursts so deafeningly on humans
as they enter the Garden, during a dog-show, was
wholly audible to Lad out in the street itself. And,
as instinct or scent makes a hog flinch at going
into a slaughterhouse, so the gallant dog's spirit
quailed for a moment as he followed the Mistress
and the Master into the building.</p>
<p>A man who is at all familiar with the ways of
dogs can tell at once whether a dog's bark denotes
cheer or anger or terror or grief or curiosity. To
such a man a bark is as expressive of meanings
as are the inflections of a human voice. To another
dog these meanings are far more intelligible.
And in the timbre of the multiple barks and yells
that now assailed his ears, Lad read nothing to
allay his own fears.</p>
<p>He was the hero of a half-dozen hard-won
fights. He had once risked his life to save life.
He had attacked tramps and peddlers and other
stick-wielding invaders who had strayed into the
grounds of The Place. Yet the tiniest semblance
of fear now crept into his heart.</p>
<p>He looked up at the Mistress, a world of sorrowing
appeal in his eyes. At her gentle touch on
his head and at a whisper of her loved voice, he
moved onward at her side with no further hesitation.
If these, his gods, were leading him to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</SPAN></span>
death, he would not question their right to do it,
but would follow on as befitted a good soldier.</p>
<p>Through a doorway they went. At a wicket a
yawning veterinary glanced uninterestedly at Lad.
As the dog had no outward and glaring signs of
disease, the vet' did not so much as touch him, but
with a nod suffered him to pass. The vet' was
paid to inspect all dogs as they entered the show.
Perhaps some of them were turned back by him,
perhaps not; but after this, as after many another
show, scores of kennels were swept by distemper
and by other canine maladies, scores of deaths followed.
That is one of the risks a dog-exhibitor
must take—or rather that his luckless dogs must
take—in spite of the fees paid to yawning veterinaries
to bar out sick entrants.</p>
<p>As Lad passed in through the doorway, he halted
involuntarily in dismay. Dogs—dogs—DOGS!
More than two thousand of them, from Great Dane
to toy terrier, benched in row after row throughout
the vast floor-space of the Garden! Lad had never
known there were so many dogs on earth.</p>
<p>Fully five hundred of them were barking or
howling. The hideous volume of sound swelled
to the Garden's vaulted roof and echoed back again
like innumerable hammer-blows upon the eardrum.</p>
<p>The Mistress stood holding Lad's chain and
softly caressing the bewildered dog, while the
Master went to make inquiries. Lad pressed his<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</SPAN></span>
shaggy body closer to her knee for refuge, as he
gazed blinkingly around him.</p>
<p>In the Garden's center were several large inclosures
of wire and reddish wood. Inside each
inclosure were a table, a chair and a movable platform.
The platform was some six inches high and
four feet square. At corners of these "judging-rings"
were blackboards on which the classes next
to be inspected were chalked up.</p>
<p>All around the central space were alleys, on each
side of which were lines of raised "benches," two
feet from the ground. The benches were carpeted
with straw and were divided off by high wire partitions
into compartments about three feet in area.
Each compartment was to be the abiding-place of
some unfortunate dog for the next four days and
nights. By short chains the dogs were bound into
these open-fronted cells.</p>
<p>The chains left their wearers just leeway enough
to stand up or lie down or to move to the various
limits of the tiny space. In front of some of the
compartments a wire barrier was fastened. This
meant that the occupant was savage—in other
words, that under the four-day strain he was likely
to resent the stares or pokes or ticklings or promiscuous
alien pattings of fifty thousand curious
visitors.</p>
<p>The Master came back with a plumply tipped
attendant. Lad was conducted through a babel
of yapping and snapping thoroughbreds of all<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</SPAN></span>
breeds, to a section at the Garden's northeast
corner, above which, in large black letters on a
white sign, was inscribed "<span class="smcap">Collies</span>." Here his
conductors stopped before a compartment numbered
"658."</p>
<p>"Up, Laddie!" said the Mistress, touching the
straw-carpeted bench.</p>
<p>Usually, at this command, Lad was wont to
spring to the indicated height—whether car-floor
or table-top—with the lightness of a cat. Now, one
foot after another, he very slowly climbed into the
compartment he was already beginning to detest—the
cell which was planned to be his only resting-spot
for four interminable days. There he, who
had never been tied, was ignominiously chained
as though he were a runaway puppy. The insult
bit to the depths of his sore soul. He curled down
in the straw.</p>
<p>The Mistress made him as comfortable as she
could. She set before him the breakfast she had
brought and told the attendant to bring him some
water.</p>
<p>The Master, meantime, had met a collie man
whom he knew, and in company with this acquaintance
he was walking along the collie-section
examining the dogs tied there. A dozen times had
the Master visited dog-shows; but now that Lad
was on exhibition, he studied the other collies with
new eyes.</p>
<p>"Look!" he said boastfully to his companion,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</SPAN></span>
pausing before a bench whereon were chained a
half-dozen dogs from a single illustrious kennel.
"These fellows aren't in it with old Lad. See—their
noses are tapered like tooth-picks, and the
span of their heads, between the ears, isn't as wide
as my palm; and their eyes are little and they slant
like a Chinaman's; and their bodies are as curved
as a grayhound's. Compared with Lad, some of
them are freaks. That's all they are, just freaks—not
all of them, of course, but a lot of them."</p>
<p>"That's the idea nowadays," laughed the collie
man patronizingly. "The up-to-date collie—this
year's style, at least—is bred with a borzoi (wolfhound)
head and with graceful, small bones.
What's the use of his having brain and scenting-power?
He's used for exhibition or kept as a pet
nowadays—not to herd sheep. Long nose, narrow
head——"</p>
<p>"But Lad once tracked my footsteps two miles
through a snowstorm," bragged the Master; "and
again on a road where fifty people had walked
since I had; and he understands the meaning of
every simple word. He——"</p>
<p>"Yes?" said the collie man, quite unimpressed.
"Very interesting—but not useful in a show. Some
of the big exhibitors still care for sense in their
dogs, and they make companions of them—Eileen
Moretta, for instance, and Fred Leighton and one
or two more; but I find most of the rest are just<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</SPAN></span>
out for the prizes. Let's have a look at your dog.
Where is he?"</p>
<p>On the way down the alley toward Cell 658
they met the worried Mistress.</p>
<p>"Lad won't eat a thing," she reported, "and he
wouldn't eat before we left home this morning,
either. He drinks plenty of water, but he won't
eat. I'm afraid he's sick."</p>
<p>"They hardly ever eat at a show," the collie man
consoled her, "hardly a mouthful—most of the
high-strung ones, but they drink quarts of water.
This is your dog, hey?" he broke off, pausing at
658. "H'm!"</p>
<p>He stood, legs apart, hands behind his back, gazing
down at Lad. The dog was lying, head between
paws, as before. He did not so much as
glance up at the stranger, but his great wistful
eyes roved from the Mistress to the Master and
back again. In all this horrible place they two
alone were his salvation.</p>
<p>"H'm!" repeated the collie man thoughtfully.
"Eyes too big and not enough slanted. Head too
thick for length of nose. Ears too far apart. Eyes
too far apart, too. Not enough 'terrier expression'
in them. Too much bone, too much bulk. Wonderful
coat, though—glorious coat! Best coat I've
seen this five years. Great brush, too! What's he
entered for? Novice, hey? May get a third with
him at that. He's the true type—but old-fashioned.
I'm afraid he's too old-fashioned for such fast<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</SPAN></span>
company as he's in. Still, you never can tell. Only
it's a pity he isn't a little more——"</p>
<p>"I wouldn't have him one bit different in any
way!" flashed the Mistress. "He's perfect as he
is. You can't see that, though, because he isn't
himself now. I've never seen him so crushed and
woe-begone. I wish we had never brought him
here."</p>
<p>"You can't blame him," said the collie man
philosophically. "Why, just suppose <i>you</i> were
brought to a strange place like this and chained
into a cage and were left there four days and
nights while hundreds of other prisoners kept
screaming and shouting and crying at the top of
their lungs every minute of the time! And suppose
about a hundred thousand people kept jostling past
your cage night and day, rubbering at you and
pointing at you and trying to feel your ears and
mouth, and chirping at you to shake hands, would
<i>you</i> feel very hungry or very chipper? A four-day
show is the most fearful thing a high-strung
dog can go through—next to vivisection. A little
one-day show, for about eight hours, is no special
ordeal, especially if the dog's Master stays near
him all the time; but a four-day show is—is Sheol!
I wonder the S. P. C. A. doesn't do something to
make it easier."</p>
<p>"If I'd known—if we'd known——" began the
Mistress.</p>
<p>"Most of these folks know!" returned the collie<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</SPAN></span>
man. "They do it year after year. There's a
mighty strong lure in a bit of ribbon. Why, look
what an exhibitor will do for it! He'll risk his
dog's health and make his dog's life a horror.
He'll ship him a thousand miles in a tight crate
from Show to Show. (Some dogs die under the
strain of so many journeys.) And he'll pay five
dollars for every class the dog's entered in. Some
exhibitors enter a single dog in five or six classes.
The Association charges one dollar admission to
the show. Crowds of people pay the price to come
in. The exhibitor gets none of the gate-money.
All he gets for his five dollars or his twenty-five
dollars is an off chance at a measly scrap of colored
silk worth maybe four cents. That, and the same
off-chance at a tiny cash prize that doesn't come
anywhere near to paying his expenses. Yet, for all,
it's the straightest sport on earth. Not an atom
of graft in it, and seldom any profit.... So long!
I wish you folks luck with 658."</p>
<p>He strolled on. The Mistress was winking very
fast and was bending over Lad, petting him and
whispering to him. The Master looked in curiosity
at a kennel man who was holding down a nearby
collie while a second man was trimming the scared
dog's feet and fetlocks with a pair of curved shears;
and now the Master noted that nearly every dog
but Lad was thus clipped as to ankle.</p>
<p>At an adjoining cell a woman was sifting almost
a pound of talcum powder into her dog's fur to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</SPAN></span>
make the coat fluffier. Elsewhere similar weird
preparations were in progress. And Lad's only
preparation had been baths and brushing! The
Master began to feel like a fool.</p>
<p>People all along the collie line presently began
to brush dogs (smoothing the fur the wrong way
to fluff it) and to put other finishing touches on
the poor beasts' make-up. The collie man strolled
back to 658.</p>
<p>"The Novice class in collies is going to be called
presently," he told the Mistress. "Where's your
exhibition-leash and choke-collar? I'll help you
put them on."</p>
<p>"Why, we've only this chain," said the Mistress.
"We bought it for Lad yesterday, and this is his
regular collar—though he never has had to wear
it. Do we have to have another kind?"</p>
<p>"You don't have to unless you want to," said
the collie man, "but it's best—especially, the choke-collar.
You see, when exhibitors go into the ring,
they hold their dogs by the leash close to the neck.
And if their dogs have choke-collars, why, then
they've <i>got</i> to hold their heads high when the leash
is pulled. They've got to, to keep from strangling.
It gives them a fine, proud carriage of the head,
that counts a lot with some judges. All dog-photos
are taken that way. Then the leash is blotted out
of the negative. Makes the dog look showy, too—keeps
him from slumping. Can't slump much
when you're trying not to choke, you know."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"It's horrible! <i>Horrible!</i>" shuddered the Mistress.
"I wouldn't put such a thing on Lad for
all the prizes on earth. When I read Davis' wonderful
'Bar Sinister' story, I thought dog-shows
were a real treat to dogs. I see, now, they're——"</p>
<p>"Your class is called!" interrupted the collie man.
"Keep his head high, keep him moving as showily
as you can. Lead him close to you with the chain
as short as possible. Don't be scared if any of
the other dogs in the ring happen to fly at him.
The attendants will look out for all that. Good
luck."</p>
<p>Down the aisle and to the wired gate of the
north-eastern ring the unhappy Mistress piloted the
unhappier Lad. The big dog gravely kept beside
her, regardless of other collies moving in the same
direction. The Garden had begun to fill with
visitors, and the ring was surrounded with interested
"rail-birds." The collie classes, as usual, were
among those to be judged on the first day of the
four.</p>
<p>Through the gate into the ring the Mistress
piloted Lad. Six other Novice dogs were already
there. Beautiful creatures they were, and all but
one were led by kennel men. At the table, behind
a ledger flanked by piles of multicolored
ribbons, sat the clerk. Beside the platform stood
a wizened and elderly little man in tweeds. He
was McGilead, who had been chosen as judge for
the collie division. He was a Scot, and he was also<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</SPAN></span>
a man with stubborn opinions of his own as to
dogs.</p>
<p>Around the ring, at the judge's order, the Novice
collies were paraded. Most of them stepped high
and fast and carried their heads proudly aloft—the
thin choke-collars cutting deep into their furry
necks. One entered was a harum-scarum puppy
who writhed and bit and whirled about in ecstasy
of terror.</p>
<p>Lad moved solemnly along at the Mistress' side.
He did not pant or curvet or look showy. He was
miserable and every line of his splendid body
showed his misery. The Mistress, too, glancing at
the more spectacular dogs, wanted to cry—not because
she was about to lose, but because Lad was
about to lose. Her heart ached for him. Again
she blamed herself bitterly for bringing him here.</p>
<p>McGilead, hands in pockets, stood sucking at an
empty brier pipe, and scanning the parade that
circled around him. Presently he stepped up to
the Mistress, checked her as she filed past him, and
said to her with a sort of sorrowful kindness:</p>
<p>"Please take your dog over to the far end of
the ring. Take him into the corner where he won't
be in my way while I am judging."</p>
<p>Yes, he spoke courteously enough, but the Mistress
would rather have had him hit her across the
face. Meekly she obeyed his command. Across
the ring, to the very farthest corner, she went—poor
beautiful Lad beside her, disgraced, weeded<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</SPAN></span>
out of the competition at the very start. There,
far out of the contest, she stood, a drooping little
figure, feeling as though everyone were sneering at
her dear dog's disgrace.</p>
<p>Lad seemed to sense her sorrow. For, as he
stood beside her, head and tail low, he whined
softly and licked her hand as if in encouragement.
She ran her fingers along his silky head. Then,
to keep from crying, she watched the other contestants.</p>
<p>No longer were these parading. One at a time
and then in twos, the judge was standing them on
the platform. He looked at their teeth. He
pressed their heads between his hands. He
"hefted" their hips. He ran his fingers through
their coats. He pressed his palm upward against
their underbodies. He subjected them to a score
of such annoyances, but he did it all with a quick
and sure touch that not even the crankiest of them
could resent.</p>
<p>Then he stepped back and studied the quartet.
After that he seemed to remember Lad's presence,
and, as though by way of earning his fee, he
slouched across the ring to where the forlorn Mistress
was petting her dear disgraced dog.</p>
<p>Lazily, perfunctorily, the judge ran his hand over
Lad, with absolutely none of the thoroughness that
had marked his inspection of the other dogs. Apparently
there was no need to look for the finer
points in a disqualified collie. The sketchy examina<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</SPAN></span>tion
did not last three seconds. At its end the
judge jotted down a number on a pad he held.
Then he laid one hand heavily on Lad's head and
curtly thrust out his other hand at the Mistress.</p>
<p>"Can I take him away now?" she asked, still
stroking Lad's fur.</p>
<p>"Yes," rasped the judge, "and take this along
with him."</p>
<p>In his outstretched hand fluttered a little bunch
of silk—dark blue, with gold lettering on it.</p>
<p>The blue ribbon! First prize in the Novice class!
And this grouchy little judge was awarding it—to
<i>Lad!</i></p>
<p>The Mistress looked very hard at the bit of blue
and gold in her fingers. She saw it through a
queer mist. Then, as she stooped to fasten it to
Lad's collar, she furtively kissed the tiny white spot
on the top of his head.</p>
<p>"It's something like the 'Bar Sinister' victory
after all!" she exclaimed joyously as she rejoined
the delighted Master at the ring gate. "But, oh,
it was terrible for a minute or two, wasn't it?"</p>
<p>Now, Angus McGilead, Esq. (late of Linlithgow,
Scotland), had a knowledge of collies such as is
granted to few men, and this very fact made him
a wretchedly bad dog-show judge; as the Kennel
Club, which—on the strength of his fame—had
engaged his services for this single occasion,
speedily learned. The greatest lawyer makes often
the worst judge. Legal annals prove this; and the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</SPAN></span>
same thing applies to dog-experts. They are sane
rather than judicial.</p>
<p>McGilead had scant patience with the ultra-modern,
inbred and grayhoundlike collies which
had so utterly departed from their ancestral
standards. At one glimpse he had recognized Lad
as a dog after his own heart—a dog that brought
back to him the murk and magic of the Highland
moors.</p>
<p>He had noted the deep chest, the mighty forequarters,
the tiny white paws, the incredible wealth
of outer- and under-coat, the brush, the grand
head, and the soul in the eyes. This was such a
dog as McGilead's shepherd ancestors had admitted
as an honored equal, at hearth and board—such a
dog, for brain and brawn and beauty, as a Highland
master would no sooner sell than he would
sell his own child.</p>
<p>McGilead, therefore, had waved Lad aside while
he judged the lesser dogs of his class, lest he be
tempted to look too much at Lad and too little at
them; and he rejoiced, at the last, to give honor
where all honor was due.</p>
<p>Through dreary hours that day Lad lay disconsolate
in his cell, nose between paws, while the
stream of visitors flowed sluggishly past him. His
memory of the Guest-Law prevented him from
showing his teeth when some of these passing
humans paused in front of the compartment to
pat him or to consult his number in their catalogues.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</SPAN></span>
But he accorded not so much as one look—to say
nothing of a handshake—to any of them.</p>
<p>A single drop of happiness was in his sorrow-cup.
He had, seemingly, done something that made
both the Master and the Mistress very, <i>very</i> proud
of him. He did not know just why they should
be for he had done nothing clever. In fact, he had
been at his dullest. But they <i>were</i> proud of him—undeniably
proud, and this made him glad, through
all his black despondency.</p>
<p>Even the collie man seemed to regard him with
more approval than before—not that Lad cared at
all; and two or three exhibitors came over for a
special look at him. From one of these exhibitors
the Mistress learned of a dog-show rule that was
wholly new to her.</p>
<p>She was told that the winning dog of each and
every class was obliged to return later to the ring
to compete in what was known as the Winners'
class—a contest whose entrants included every
class-victor from Novice to Open. Briefly, this
special competition was to determine which class-winner
was the best collie in the whole list of
winners and, as such, entitled to a certain number
of "points" toward a championship. There were
eight of these winners.</p>
<p>One or two such world-famed champions as
Grey Mist and Southport Sample were in the show
"for exhibition only." But the pick of the remaining
leaders must compete in the winners' class<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</SPAN></span>—Sunnybank
Lad among them. The Master's
heart sank at this news.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry!" he said. "You see, it's one thing
to win as a Novice against a bunch of untried dogs,
and quite another to compete against the best dogs
in the show. I wish we could get out of it."</p>
<p>"Never mind!" answered the Mistress. "Laddie
has won his ribbon. They can't take that away
from him. There's a silver cup for the Winners'
class, though. I wish there had been one for the
Novices."</p>
<p>The day wore on. At last came the call for
"Winners!" And for the second time poor Lad
plodded reluctantly into the ring with the Mistress.
But now, instead of novice dogs, he was confronted
by the cream of colliedom.</p>
<p>Lad's heartsick aspect showed the more intensely
in such company. It grieved the Mistress bitterly
to see his disconsolate air. She thought of the
three days and nights to come—the nights when
she and the Master could not be with him, when
he must lie listening to the babel of yells and barks
all around, with nobody to speak to him except
some neglectful and sleepy attendant. And for
the sake of a blue ribbon she had brought this upon
him!</p>
<p>The Mistress came to a sudden and highly unsportsmanlike
resolution.</p>
<p>Again the dogs paraded the ring. Again the
judge studied them from between half-shut eyes.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</SPAN></span>
But this time he did not wave Lad to one side.
The Mistress had noted, during the day, that
McGilead had always made known his decisions by
first laying his hand on the victor's head. And
she watched breathless for such a gesture.</p>
<p>One by one the dogs were weeded out until only
two remained. Of these two, one was Lad—the
Mistress' heart banged crazily—and the other was
Champion Coldstream Guard. The Champion was
a grand dog, gold-and-white of hue, perfect of coat
and line, combining all that was best in the old and
new styles of collies. He carried his head nobly
aloft with no help from the choke-collar. His
"tulip" ears hung at precisely the right curve.</p>
<p>Lad and Coldstream Guard were placed shoulder
to shoulder on the platform. Even the Mistress
could not fail to contrast her pet's woe-begone
aspect with the Champion's alert beauty.</p>
<p>"Lad!" she said, very low, and speaking with
slow intentness as McGilead compared the two.
"Laddie, we're going home. Home! <i>Home</i>, Lad!"</p>
<p>Home! At the word, a thrill went through the
great dog. His shoulders squared. Up went his
head and his ears. His dark eyes fairly glowed
with eagerness as he looked expectantly up at the
Mistress. <i>Home!</i></p>
<p>Yet, despite the transformation, the other was
the finer dog—from a mere show viewpoint. The
Mistress could see he was. Even the new uptilt<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</SPAN></span>
of Lad's ears could not make those ears so perfect
in shape and attitude as were the Champion's.</p>
<p>With almost a gesture of regret McGilead laid
his hand athwart Coldstream Guard's head. The
Mistress read the verdict, and she accepted it.</p>
<p>"Come, Laddie, dear," she said tenderly.
"You're second, anyway, Reserve-Winner. That's
<i>something</i>."</p>
<p>"Wait!" snapped McGilead.</p>
<p>The judge was seizing one of Champion Coldstream
Guard's supershapely ears and turning it
backward. His sensitive fingers, falling on the
dog's head in token of victory, had encountered
an odd stiffness in the curve of the ear. Now he
began to examine that ear, and then the other, and
thereby he disclosed a most clever bit of surgical
bandaging.</p>
<p>Neatly crisscrossed, inside each of the Champion's
ears, was a succession of adhesive-plaster
strips cut thin and running from tip to orifice.
The scientific applying of these strips had painfully
imparted to the prick-ears (the dog's one flaw)
the perfect tulip-shape so desirable as a show-quality.
Champion Coldstream Guard's silken ears
could not have had other than ideal shape and
posture if he had wanted them to—while that
crisscross of sticky strips held them in position!</p>
<p>Now, this was no new trick—the ruse that the
Champion's handlers had employed. Again and
again in bench-shows, it had been employed upon<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</SPAN></span>
bull-terriers. A year or two ago a woman was
ordered from the ring, at the Garden, when plaster
was found inside her terrier's ears, but seldom before
had it been detected in a collie—in which a
prick-ear usually counts as a fatal blemish.</p>
<p>McGilead looked at the Champion. Long and
searchingly he looked at the man who held the
Champion's leash—and who fidgeted grinningly
under the judge's glare. Then McGilead laid both
hands on Lad's great honest head—almost as in
benediction.</p>
<p>"Your dog wins, Madam," he said, "and while
it is no part of a judge's duty to say so, I am
heartily glad. I won't insult you by asking if he
is for sale, but if ever you have to part with
him——"</p>
<p>He did not finish, but abruptly gave the Mistress
the "Winning Class" rosette.</p>
<p>And now, as Lad left the ring, hundreds of
hands were put out to pat him. All at once he
was a celebrity.</p>
<p>Without returning the dog to the bench, the Mistress
went directly to the collie man.</p>
<p>"When do they present the cups?" she asked.</p>
<p>"Not until Saturday night, I believe," said the
man. "I congratulate you both on——"</p>
<p>"In order to win his cup, Lad will have to stay
in this—this inferno—for three days and nights
longer?"</p>
<p>"Of course. All the dogs——"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"If he doesn't stay, he won't get the cup?"</p>
<p>"No. It would go to the Reserve, I suppose,
or to——"</p>
<p>"Good!" declared the Mistress in relief. "Then
he won't be defrauding anyone, and they can't rob
him of his two ribbons because I have those."</p>
<p>"What do you mean?" asked the puzzled collie
man.</p>
<p>But the Master understood—and approved.</p>
<p>"Good!" he said. "I wanted all day to suggest
it to you, but I didn't have the nerve. Come around
to the Exhibitors' Entrance. I'll go ahead and start
the car."</p>
<p>"But what's the idea?" queried the collie man
in bewilderment.</p>
<p>"The idea," replied the Mistress, "is that the
cup can go to any dog that wants it. Lad's coming
<i>home</i>. He knows it, too. Just look at him.
I promised him he should go home. We can get
there by dinner-time, and he has a day's fast to
make up for."</p>
<p>"But," expostulated the scandalized collie man,
"if you withdraw your dog like that, the Association
will never allow you to exhibit him at its
shows again."</p>
<p>"The Association can have a pretty silver cup,"
retorted the Mistress, "to console it for losing Lad.
As for exhibiting him again—well, I wouldn't lose
these two ribbons for a hundred dollars, but I
wouldn't put my worst enemy's dog to the torture<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</SPAN></span>
of winning them over again—for a thousand.
Come along, Lad, we're going back home."</p>
<p>At the talisman-word, Lad broke silence for the
first time in all that vilely wretched day. He broke
it with a series of thunderously trumpeting barks
that quite put to shame the puny noise-making efforts
of every other dog in the show.</p>
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