<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></SPAN>CHAPTER VIII<br/> THE GOLD HAT</h2>
<p>The Place was in the North Jersey hinterland,
backed by miles of hill and forest, facing
the lake that divided it from the village and
the railroad and the other new-made smears which
had been daubed upon Mother Nature's smiling face
in the holy name of Civilization. The lonely situation
of The Place made Lad's self-appointed guardianship
of its acres no sinecure at all. The dread
of his name spread far—carried by hobo and by
less harmless intruder.</p>
<p>Ten miles to northward of The Place, among the
mountains of this same North Jersey hinterland, a
man named Glure had bought a rambling old wilderness
farm. By dint of much money, more zeal
and most dearth of taste, he had caused the wilderness
to blossom like the Fifth Proposition of Euclid.
He had turned bosky wildwood into chaste picnic-grove
plaisaunces, lush meadows into sunken gardens,
a roomy colonial farmstead into something
between a feudal castle and a roadhouse. And,
looking on his work, he had seen that it was good.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>This Beautifier of the Wilderness was a financial
giantlet, who had lately chosen to amuse himself,
after work-hours, by what he called "farming."
Hence the purchase and renovation of the five hundred-acre
tract, the building of model farms, the
acquisition of priceless livestock, and the hiring of
a battalion of skilled employees. Hence, too, his
dearly loved and self-given title of "Wall Street
Farmer." His name, I repeat, was Glure.</p>
<p>Having established himself in the region, the
Wall Street Farmer undertook most earnestly to
reproduce the story-book glories of the life supposedly
led by mid-Victorian country gentlemen.
Not only in respect to keeping open-house and in
alternately patronizing and bullying the peasantry,
but in filling his gun-room shelves with cups and
other trophies won by his livestock.</p>
<p>To his "open house" few of the neighboring families
came. The local peasantry—Jersey mountaineers
of Revolutionary stock, who had not the faintest
idea they were "peasantry" and who, indeed, had
never heard of the word—alternately grinned and
swore at the Wall Street Farmer's treatment of
them, and mulcted him of huge sums for small
services. But Glure's keenest disappointment—a
disappointment that crept gradually up toward the
monomania point—was the annoyingly continual
emptiness of his trophy-shelves.</p>
<p>When, for instance, he sent to the Paterson Livestock
Show a score of his pricelessly imported me<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</SPAN></span>rino
sheep, under his more pricelessly imported
Scotch shepherd, Mr. McGillicuddy—the sheep came
ambling back to Glure Towers Farm bearing no
worthier guerdon than a single third-prize yellow
silk rosette and a "Commended" ribbon. First and
second prizes, as well as the challenge cup had gone
to flocks owned by vastly inferior folk—small farmers
who had no money wherewith to import the pick
of the Scottish moors—farmers who had bred and
developed their own sheep, with no better aid than
personal care and personal judgment.</p>
<p>At the Hohokus Fair, too, the Country Gentleman's
imported Holstein bull, Tenebris, had had to
content himself with a measly red rosette in token
of second prize, while the silver cup went to a bull
owned by an elderly North Jerseyman of low manners,
who had bred his own entry and had bred
the latter's ancestors for forty years back.</p>
<p>It was discouraging, it was mystifying. There
actually seemed to be a vulgar conspiracy among
the down-at-heel rural judges—a conspiracy to
boost second-rate stock and to turn a blind eye
to the virtues of overpriced transatlantic importations.</p>
<p>It was the same in the poultry shows and in hog
exhibits. It was the same at the County Fair horse-trots.
At one of these trots the Wall Street Farmer,
in person, drove his $9000 English colt. And a
rangy Hackensack gelding won all three heats. In
none of the three did Glure's colt get within hailing<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</SPAN></span>
distance of the wire before at least two other trotters
had clattered under it.</p>
<p>(Glure's English head-groom was called on the
carpet to explain why a colt that could do a neat
2.13 in training was beaten out in a 2.17 trot. The
groom lost his temper and his place. For he
grunted, in reply, "The colt was all there. It was
the driving did it.")</p>
<p>The gun-room's glassed shelves in time were gay
with ribbon. But only two of the three primary
colors were represented there—blue being conspicuously
absent. As for cups—the burglar who should
break into Glure Towers in search of such booty
would find himself the worse off by a wageless
night's work.</p>
<p>Then it was that the Wall Street Farmer had his
Inspiration. Which brings us by easy degrees to
the Hampton Dog Show.</p>
<p>Even as the Fiery Cross among the Highland
crags once flashed signal of War, so, when the
World War swirl sucked nation after nation into its
eddy, the Red Cross flamed from one end of
America to the other, as the common rallying point
for those who, for a time, must do their fighting
on the hither side of the gray seas. The country
bristled with a thousand money-getting functions
of a thousand different kinds; with one objective—the
Red Cross.</p>
<p>So it happened at last that North Jersey was
posted, on state road and byway, with flaring pla<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</SPAN></span>cards
announcing a Mammoth Outdoor Specialty
Dog show, to be held under the auspices of the
Hampton Branch of the American National Red
Cross, on Labor Day.</p>
<p>Mr. Hamilcar Q. Glure, the announcement continued,
had kindly donated the use of his beautiful
grounds for the Event, and had subscribed three
hundred dollars towards its running expenses and
prizes.</p>
<p>Not only were the usual dog classes to be judged,
but an added interest was to be supplied by the
awarding of no less than fifteen Specialty
Trophies.</p>
<p>Mr. Glure, having offered his grounds and the
initial three hundred dollars, graciously turned over
the details of the Show to a committee, whose duty
it was to suggest popular Specialties and to solicit
money for the cups.</p>
<p>Thus, one morning, an official letter was received
at The Place, asking the Master to enter all his
available dogs for the Show—at one dollar apiece
for each class—and to contribute, if he should so desire,
the sum of fifteen dollars, besides, for the purchase
of a Specialty Cup.</p>
<p>The Mistress was far more excited over the coming
event than was the Master. And it was she who
suggested the nature of the Specialty for which the
fifteen-dollar cup should be offered.</p>
<p>The next outgoing mail bore the Master's check<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</SPAN></span>
for a cup. "To be awarded to the oldest and best-cared-for
dog, of any breed, in the Show."</p>
<p>It was like the Mistress to think of that, and to
reward the dog-owner whose pet's old age had been
made happiest. Hers was destined to be the most
popular Specialty of the entire Show.</p>
<p>The Master, at first, was disposed to refuse the
invitation to take any of his collies to Hampton.
The dogs were, for the most part, out of coat. The
weather was warm. At these amateur shows—as
at too many professional exhibits—there was always
danger of some sick dog spreading epidemic. Moreover,
the living-room trophy-shelf at The Place was
already comfortably filled with cups; won at similar
contests. Then, too, the Master had somehow
acquired a most causeless and cordial dislike for
the Wall Street Farmer.</p>
<p>"I believe I'll send an extra ten dollars," he told
the Mistress, "and save the dogs a day of torment.
What do you think?"</p>
<p>By way of answer, the Mistress sat down on the
floor where Lad was sprawled, asleep. She ran her
fingers through his forest of ruff. The great dog's
brush pounded drowsily against the floor at the
loved touch; and he raised his head for further
caress.</p>
<p>"Laddie's winter coat is coming in beautifully,"
she said at last. "I don't suppose there'll be another
dog there with such a coat. Besides, it's to be outdoors,
you see. So he won't catch any sickness.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</SPAN></span>
If it were a four-day show—if it were anything
longer than a one-day show—he shouldn't go a step.
But, you see, I'd be right there with him all the
time. And I'd take him into the ring myself, as
I did at Madison Square Garden. And he won't be
unhappy or lonely or—or anything. And I always
love to have people see how splendid he is. And
those Specialty Trophies are pretty, sometimes. So—so
we'll do just whatever you say about it."</p>
<p>Which, naturally, settled the matter, once and
for all.</p>
<p>When a printed copy of the Specialty Lists arrived,
a week later, the Mistress and the Master
scanned eagerly its pages.</p>
<p>There were cups offered for the best tri-color
collie, for the best mother-and-litter, for the collie
with the finest under-and-outer coat, for the best
collie exhibited by a woman, for the collie whose
get had won most prizes in other shows. At the
very bottom of the section, and in type six points
larger than any other announcement on the whole
schedule, were the words:</p>
<p>"<i>Presented, by the Hon. Hugh Lester Maury of
New York City—18-KARAT GOLD SPECIALTY
CUP, FOR COLLIES (conditions announced
later).</i>"</p>
<p>"A gold cup!" sighed the Mistress, yielding to
Delusions of Grandeur, "A <i>gold</i> cup! I never
heard of such a thing, at a dog show. And—and
won't it look perfectly gorgeous in the very center<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</SPAN></span>
of our Trophy Shelf, there—with the other cups
radiating from it on each side? And——"</p>
<p>"Hold on!" laughed the Master, trying to mask
his own thrill, man-fashion, by wetblanketing his
wife's enthusiasm. "Hold on! We haven't got it,
yet. I'll enter Lad for it, of course. But so will
every other collie-owner who reads that. Besides,
even if Lad should win it, we'd have to buy a
microscope to see the thing. It will probably be
about half the size of a thimble. Gold cups cost
gold money, you know. And I don't suppose this
'Hon. Hugh Lester Maury of New York City' is
squandering more than ten or fifteen dollars at
most on a country dog show. Even for the Red
Cross. I suppose he's some Wall Street chum that
Glure has wheedled into giving a Specialty. He's
a novelty to me. I never heard of him before. Did
you?"</p>
<p>"No," admitted the Mistress. "But I feel I'm
beginning to love him. Oh, Laddie," she confided
to the dog, "I'm going to give you a bath in naphtha
soap every day till then; and brush you, two hours
every morning; and feed you on liver and——"</p>
<p>"'Conditions announced later,'" quoted the Master,
studying the big-type offer once more. "I wonder
what that means. Of course, in a Specialty
Show, anything goes. But——"</p>
<p>"I don't care what the conditions are," interrupted
the Mistress, refusing to be disheartened.
"Lad can come up to them. Why, there isn't a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</SPAN></span>
greater dog in America than Lad. And you
know it."</p>
<p>"I know it," assented the pessimistic Master.
"But will the Judge? You might tell him so."</p>
<p>"Lad will tell him," promised the Mistress.
"Don't worry."</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>On Labor Day morning a thousand cars, from a
radius of fifty miles, were converging upon the
much-advertised village of Hampton; whence, by
climbing a tortuous first-speed hill, they presently
chugged into the still-more-advertised estate of
Hamilcar Q. Glure, Wall Street Farmer.</p>
<p>There, the sylvan stillness was shattered by barks
in every key, from Pekingese falsetto to St. Bernard
bass-thunder. An open stretch of shaded
sward—backed by a stable that looked more like a
dissolute cathedral—had been given over to ten
double rows of "benches," for the anchorage of
the Show's three hundred exhibits. Above the central
show-ring a banner was strung between two
tree tops. It bore a blazing red cross at either end.
In its center was the legend:</p>
<blockquote><p>"<i>WELCOME TO GLURE TOWERS!</i>"</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The Wall Street Farmer, as I have hinted, was
a man of much taste—of a sort.</p>
<p>Lad had enjoyed the ten-mile spin through the
cool morning air, in the tonneau of The Place's<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</SPAN></span>
only car—albeit the course of baths and combings
of the past week had long since made him morbidly
aware that a detested dog show was somewhere at
hand. Now, even before the car entered the fearsome
feudal gateway of Glure Towers, the collie's
ears and nose told him the hour of ordeal was at
hand.</p>
<p>His zest in the ride vanished. He looked reproachfully
at the Mistress and tried to bury his
head under her circling arm. Lad loathed dog
shows; as does every dog of high-strung nerves
and higher intelligence. The Mistress, after one experience,
had refrained from breaking his heart by
taking him to those horrors known as "two-or-more-day
Shows." But, as she herself took such
childish delight in the local one-day contests, she had
schooled herself to believe Lad must enjoy them,
too.</p>
<p>Lad, as a matter of fact, preferred these milder
ordeals, merely as a man might prefer one day
of jail or toothache to two or more days of the
same misery. But—even as he knew many lesser
things—he knew the adored Mistress and Master
reveled in such atrocities as dog shows; and that he,
for some reason, was part of his two gods' pleasure
in them. Therefore, he made the best of the
nuisance. Which led his owners to a certainty
that he had grown to like it.</p>
<p>Parking the car, the Mistress and Master led
the unhappy dog to the clerk's desk; received his<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</SPAN></span>
number tag and card, and were shown where to
bench him. They made Lad as nearly comfortable
as possible, on a straw-littered raised stall; between
a supercilious Merle and a fluffily disconsolate sable-and-white
six-month puppy that howled ceaselessly
in an agony of fright.</p>
<p>The Master paused for a moment in his quest of
water for Lad, and stared open-mouthed at the
Merle.</p>
<p>"Good Lord!" he mumbled, touching the Mistress'
arm and pointing to the gray dog. "That's
the most magnificent collie I ever set eyes on. It's
farewell to poor old Laddie's hopes, if he is in any
of the same classes with that marvel. Say goodby,
right now, to your hopes of the Gold Cup; and to
'Winners' in the regular collie division."</p>
<p>"I won't say goodby to it," refused the Mistress.
"I won't do anything of the sort. Lad's every bit
as beautiful as that dog. Every single bit."</p>
<p>"But not from the show-judge's view," said the
Master. "This Merle's a gem. Where in blazes did
he drop from, I wonder? These 'no-point' out-of-town
Specialty Shows don't attract the stars of the
Kennel Club circuits. Yet, this is as perfect a dog
as ever Grey Mist was. It's a pleasure to see such
an animal. Or," he corrected himself, "it would
be, if he wasn't pitted against dear old Lad. I'd
rather be kicked than take Lad to a show to be
beaten. Not for my sake or even for yours. But
for his. Lad will be sure to know. He knows<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</SPAN></span>
everything. Laddie, old friend, I'm sorry. Dead-<i>sorry</i>."</p>
<p>He stooped down and patted Lad's satin head.
Both Master and Mistress had always carried their
fondness for Lad to an extent that perhaps was
absurd. Certainly absurd to the man or woman
who has never owned such a super-dog as Lad.
As not one man or woman in a thousand has.</p>
<p>Together, the Mistress and the Master made
their way along the collie section, trying to be interested
in the line of barking or yelling entries.</p>
<p>"Twenty-one collies in all," summed up the Master,
as they reached the end. "Some quality dogs
among them, too. But not one of the lot, except
the Merle, that I'd be afraid to have Lad judged
against. The Merle's our Waterloo. Lad is due
for his first defeat. Well, it'll be a fair one. That's
one comfort."</p>
<p>"It doesn't comfort <i>me</i>, in the very least," returned
the Mistress, adding:</p>
<p>"Look! There is the trophy table. Let's go over.
Perhaps the Gold Cup is there. If it isn't too
precious to leave out in the open."</p>
<p>The Gold Cup was there. It was plainly—or,
rather, flamingly—visible. Indeed, it smote the eye
from afar. It made the surrounding array of pretty
silver cups and engraved medals look tawdrily insignificant.
Its presence had, already, drawn a
goodly number of admirers—folk at whom the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</SPAN></span>
guardian village constable, behind the table, stared
with sour distrust.</p>
<p>The Gold Cup was a huge bowl of unchased
metal, its softly glowing surface marred only by the
script words:</p>
<p>"<i>Maury Specialty Gold Cup. Awarded to——</i>"</p>
<p>There could be no shadow of doubt as to the genuineness
of the claim that the trophy was of eighteen-karat
gold. Its value spoke for itself. The vessel
was like a half melon in contour and was supported
by four severely plain claws. Its rim flared
outward in a wide curve.</p>
<p>"It's—it's all the world like an inverted derby
hat!" exclaimed the Mistress, after one long dumb
look at it. "And it's every bit as big as a derby
hat. Did you ever see anything so ugly—and so
Croesusful? Why, it must have cost—it must have
cost——"</p>
<p>"Just sixteen hundred dollars, Ma'am," supplemented
the constable, beginning to take pride in his
office of guardian to such a treasure. "Sixteen hundred
dollars, flat. I heard Mr. Glure sayin' so myself.
Don't go handlin' it, please."</p>
<p>"Handling it?" repeated The Mistress. "I'd as
soon think of handling the National Debt!"</p>
<p>The Superintendent of the Show strolled up and
greeted the Mistress and the Master. The latter
scarce heard the neighborly greeting. He was
scowling at the precious trophy as at a personal
foe.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"I see you've entered Lad for the Gold Cup," said
the Superintendent. "Sixteen collies, in all, are entered
for it. The conditions for the Gold Cup contest
weren't printed till too late to mail them. So
I'm handing out the slips this morning. Mr. Glure
took charge of their printing. They didn't get here
from the job shop till half an hour ago. And I
don't mind telling you they're causing a lot of kicks.
Here's one of the copies. Look it over, and see
what Lad's up against."</p>
<p>"Who's the Hon. Hugh Lester Maury, of New
York?" suddenly demanded the Master, rousing
himself from his glum inspection of the Cup. "I
mean the man who donated that—that Gold Hat?"</p>
<p>"Gold Hat!" echoed the Superintendent, with a
chuckle of joy. "Gold Hat! Now you say so, I
can't make it look like anything else. A derby,
upside down, with four——"</p>
<p>"Who's Maury?" insisted the Master.</p>
<p>"He's the original Man of Mystery," returned
the Superintendent, dropping his voice to exclude
the constable. "I wanted to get in touch with him
about the delayed set of conditions. I looked him
up. That is, I tried to. He is advertised in the
premium list, as a New Yorker. You'll remember
that, but his name isn't in the New York City
Directory or in the New York City telephone book
or in the suburban telephone book. He can afford
to give a sixteen hundred dollar-cup for charity,
but it seems he isn't important enough to get his<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</SPAN></span>
name in any directory. Funny, isn't it? I asked
Glure about him. That's all the good it did me."</p>
<p>"You don't mean——?" began the Mistress, excitedly.</p>
<p>"I don't mean anything," the Superintendent hurried
to forestall her. "I'm paid to take charge of
this Show. It's no affair of mine if——"</p>
<p>"If Mr. Glure chooses to invent Hugh Lester
Maury and make him give a Gold Hat for a collie
prize?" suggested the Mistress. "But——"</p>
<p>"I didn't say so," denied the superintendent.
"And it's none of my business, anyhow.
Here's——"</p>
<p>"But why should Mr. Glure do such a thing?"
asked the Mistress, in wonder. "I never heard of
his shrinking coyly behind another name when he
wanted to spend money. I don't understand why
he——"</p>
<p>"Here is the conditions-list for the Maury Specialty
Cup," interposed the superintendent with
extreme irrelevance, as he handed her a pink slip
of paper. "Glance over it."</p>
<p>The Mistress took the slip and read aloud for
the benefit of the Master who was still glowering
at the Gold Hat:</p>
<p>"<i>Conditions of Contest for Hugh Lester Maury
Gold Cup:</i></p>
<p>"'<i>First.—No collie shall be eligible that has not
already taken at least one blue ribbon at a licensed
American or British Kennel Club Show.</i>'"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"That single clause has barred out eleven of the
sixteen entrants," commented the Superintendent.
"You see, most of the dogs at these local Shows
are pets, and hardly any of them have been to
Madison Square Garden or to any of the other
A. K. C. shows. The few that have been to them
seldom got a Blue."</p>
<p>"Lad did!" exclaimed the Mistress joyfully.
"He took two Blues at the Garden last year; and
then, you remember, it was so horrible for him
there we broke the rules and brought him home
without waiting for——"</p>
<p>"I know," said the Superintendent, "but read the
rest."</p>
<p>"'<i>Second</i>,'" read the Mistress. "'<i>Each contestant
must have a certified five-generation pedigree,
containing the names of at least ten champions.</i>'
Lad had twelve in his pedigree," she added,
"and it's certified."</p>
<p>"Two more entrants were killed out by <i>that</i>
clause," remarked the Superintendent, "leaving only
three out of the original sixteen. Now go ahead
with the clause that puts poor old Lad and one
other out of the running. I'm sorry."</p>
<p>"'<i>Third</i>,'" the Mistress read, her brows crinkling
and her voice trailing as she proceeded. "'<i>Each
contestant must go successfully through the preliminary
maneuvers prescribed by the Kirkaldie
Association, Inc., of Great Britain, for its Working
Sheepdog Trials.</i>'—But," she protested, "Lad isn't<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</SPAN></span>
a 'working' sheepdog! Why, this is some kind of
a joke! I never heard of such a thing—even in a
Specialty Show."</p>
<p>"No," agreed the Superintendent, "nor anybody
else. Naturally, Lad isn't a 'working' sheepdog.
There probably haven't been three 'working' sheepdogs
born within a hundred miles of here, and it's
a mighty safe bet that no 'working' sheepdog has
ever taken a 'Blue' at an A. K. C. Show. A 'working'
dog is almost never a show dog. I know of
only one either here or in England; and he's a freak—a
miracle. So much so, that he's famous all over
the dog-world."</p>
<p>"Do you mean Champion Lochinvar III?" asked
the Mistress. "The dog the Duke of Hereford used
to own?"</p>
<p>"That's the dog. The only——"</p>
<p>"We read about him in the <i>Collie Folio</i>," said
the Mistress. "His picture was there, too. He was
sent to Scotland when he was a puppy, the <i>Folio</i>
said, and trained to herd sheep before ever he was
shown. His owner was trying to induce other
collie-fanciers to make their dogs useful and not
just Show-exhibits. Lochinvar is an international
champion, too, isn't he?"</p>
<p>The Superintendent nodded.</p>
<p>"If the Duke of Hereford lived in New Jersey,"
pursued the Mistress, trying to talk down her keen
chagrin over Lad's mishap, "Lochinvar might have
a chance to win a nice Gold Hat."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"He has," replied the superintendent. "He has
every chance, and the only chance."</p>
<p>"<i>Who</i> has?" queried the puzzled Mistress.</p>
<p>"Champion Lochinvar III," was the answer.
"Glure bought him by cable. Paid $7000 for him.
That eclipses Untermeyer's record price of $6500
for old Squire of Tytton. The dog arrived last
week. He's here. A big Blue Merle. You ought
to look him over. He's a wonder. He——"</p>
<p>"<i>Oh!</i>" exploded the Mistress. "You can't mean
it. You <i>can't!</i> Why, it's the most—the most
hideously unsportsmanlike thing I ever heard of
in my life! Do you mean to tell me Mr. Glure
put up this sixteen hundred-dollar cup and then sent
for the only dog that could fulfill the Trophy's
conditions? It's unbelievable!"</p>
<p>"It's Glure," tersely replied the Superintendent.
"Which perhaps comes to the same thing."</p>
<p>"Yes!" spoke up the Master harshly, entering the
talk for the first time, and tearing his disgusted
attention from the Gold Hat. "Yes, it's Glure,
and it's unbelievable! And it's worse than either
of those, if anything can be. Don't you see the
full rottenness of it all? Half the world is starving
or sick or wounded. The other half is working
its fingers off to help the Red Cross make Europe
a little less like hell; and, when every cent counts
in the work, this—this Wall Street Farmer spends
sixteen hundred precious dollars to buy himself a
Gold Hat; and he does it under the auspices of<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</SPAN></span>
the Red Cross, in the holy name of charity. The
unsportsmanlikeness of it is nothing to that. It's—it's
an Unpardonable Sin, and I don't want to
endorse it by staying here. Let's get Lad and go
home."</p>
<p>"I wish to heaven we could!" flamed the Mistress,
as angry as he. "I'd do it in a minute if we
were able to. I feel we're insulting loyal old Lad
by making him a party to it all. But we can't go.
Don't you see? Mr. Glure is unsportsmanlike, but
that's no reason we should be. You've told me,
again and again, that no true sportsman will back
out of a contest just because he finds he has no
chance of winning it."</p>
<p>"She's right," chimed in the Superintendent.
"You've entered the dog for the contest, and by
all the rules he'll have to stay in it. Lad doesn't
know the first thing about 'working.' Neither does
the only other local entrant that the first two rules
have left in the competition. And Lochinvar is perfect
at every detail of sheep-work. Lad and the
other can't do anything but swell his victory. It's
rank bad luck, but——"</p>
<p>"All right! All right!" growled the Master.
"We'll go through with it. Does anyone know the
terms of a 'Kirkaldie Association's Preliminaries,'
for 'Working Sheepdog Trials?' My own early
education was neglected."</p>
<p>"Glure's education wasn't," said the Superintendent.
"He has the full set of rules in his brand<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</SPAN></span>
new Sportsman Library. That's, no doubt, where
he got the idea. I went to him for them this morning,
and he let me copy the laws governing the
preliminaries. They're absurdly simple for a
'working' dog and absurdly impossible for a non-worker.
Here, I'll read them over to you."</p>
<p>He fished out a folded sheet of paper and read
aloud a few lines of pencil-scribblings:</p>
<p>"Four posts shall be set up, at ninety yards apart,
at the corners of a square enclosure. A fifth post
shall be set in the center. At this fifth post the
owner or handler of the contestant shall stand with
his dog. Nor shall such owner or handler move
more than three feet from the post until his dog
shall have completed the trial.</p>
<p>"Guided only by voice and by signs, the dog
shall go alone from the center-post to the post
numbered '1.' He shall go thence, in the order
named, to Posts 2, 3 and 4, without returning to
within fifteen feet of the central post until he shall
have reached Post 4.</p>
<p>"Speed and form shall count as seventy points in
these evolutions. Thirty points shall be added to
the score of the dog or dogs which shall make the
prescribed tour of the posts directed wholly by
signs and without the guidance of voice."</p>
<p>"There," finished the superintendent, "you see it
is as simple as a kindergarten game. But a child
who had never been taught could not play Puss-in-the-Corner.'
I was talking to the English<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</SPAN></span>
trainer that Glure bought along with the dog. The
trainer tells me Lochinvar can go through those
maneuvers and a hundred harder ones without a
word being spoken. He works entirely by gestures.
He watches the trainer's hand. Where the hand
points he goes. A snap of the fingers halts him.
Then he looks back for the next gesture. The
trainer says it's a delight to watch him."</p>
<p>"The delight is all his," grumbled the Master.
"Poor, poor Lad! He'll get bewildered and unhappy.
He'll want to do whatever we tell him to,
but he can't understand. It was different the time
he rounded up Glure's flock of sheep—when he'd
never seen a sheep before. That was ancestral
instinct. A throwback. But ancestral instinct
won't teach him to go to Post 1 and 2 and 3 and
4. He——"</p>
<p>"Hello, people!" boomed a jarringly cordial
voice. "Welcome to the Towers!"</p>
<p>Bearing down upon the trio was a large person,
round and yellow of face and clad elaborately in
a morning costume that suggested a stud-groom
with ministerial tendencies. He was dressed for
the Occasion. Mr. Glure was always dressed for
the Occasion.</p>
<p>"Hello, people!" repeated the Wall Street
Farmer, alternately pump-handling the totally unresponsive
Mistress and Master. "I see you've been
admiring the Maury Trophy. Magnificent, eh?
Oh, Maury's a prince, I tell you! A prince! A<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</SPAN></span>
bit eccentric, perhaps—as you'll have guessed by
the conditions he's put up for the cup. But a prince.
A prince! We think everything of him on the
Street. Have you seen my new dog? Oh, you
must go and take a look at Lochinvar! I'm entering
him for the Maury Trophy, you know."</p>
<p>"Yes," assented the Master dully, as Mr. Glure
paused to breathe. "I know."</p>
<p>He left his exultant host with some abruptness,
and piloted the Mistress back to the Collie Section.
There they came upon a scene of dire wrath. Disgruntled
owners were loudly denouncing the Maury
conditions-list, and they redoubled their plaint at
sight of the two new victims of the trick.</p>
<p>Folk who had bathed and brushed and burnished
their pets for days, in eager anticipation of a
neighborhood contest, gargled in positive hatred at
the glorious Merle. They read the pink slips over
and over with more rage at each perusal.</p>
<p>One pretty girl had sat down on the edge of a
bench, gathering her beloved gold-and-white collie's
head in her lap, and was crying unashamed. The
Master glanced at her. Then he swore softly, and
set to work helping the Mistress in the task of
fluffing Lad's glossy coat to a final soft shagginess.</p>
<p>Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to
say; but Lad realized more keenly than could a
human that both his gods were wretchedly unhappy,
and his great heart yearned pathetically to
comfort them.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"There's one consolation," said a woman at work
on a dog in the opposite bench, "Lochinvar's not
entered for anything except the Maury Cup. The
clerk told me so."</p>
<p>"Little good that will do any of us!" retorted
her bench-neighbor. "In an all-specialty show, the
winner of the Maury Trophy will go up for the
'Winners Class,' and that means Lochinvar will
get the cup for the 'Best Collie,' as well as the
Maury Cup and probably the cup for 'Best Dog of
any Breed,' too. And——"</p>
<p>"The Maury Cup is the first collie event on the
programme," lamented the other. "It's slated to be
called before even the Puppy and the Novice classes.
Mr. Glure has——"</p>
<p>"Contestants for the Maury Trophy—all out!"
bawled an attendant at the end of the section.</p>
<p>The Master unclasped the chain from Lad's
collar, snapped the light show-ring leash in its place
and handed the leash to the Mistress.</p>
<p>"Unless you'd rather have me take him in?" he
whispered. "I hate to think of your handling a
loser."</p>
<p>"I'd rather take Lad to defeat than any other
dog to—a Gold Hat," she answered, sturdily.
"Come along, Laddie!"</p>
<p>The Maury contest, naturally, could not be decided
in the regular show-ring. Mr. Glure had
thoughtfully set aside a quadrangle of greensward
for the Event—a quadrangle bounded by four white<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</SPAN></span>
and numbered posts, and bearing a larger white
post in its center.</p>
<p>A throng of people was already banked deep
on all four sides of the enclosure when the Mistress
arrived. The collie judge standing by the
central post declaimed loudly the conditions of the
contest. Then he asked for the first entrant.</p>
<p>This courtier of failure chanced to be the only
other local dog besides Lad that had survived the
first two clauses of the conditions. He chanced
also to be the dog over which the pretty girl had
been crying.</p>
<p>The girl's eyes were still red through a haze of
powder as she led her slender little gold-and-snow
collie into the ring. She had put on a filmy white
muslin dress with gold ribbons that morning with
the idea of matching her dog's coloring. She looked
very sweet and dainty—and heartsore.</p>
<p>At the central post she glanced up hopelessly at
the judge who stood beside her. The judge indicated
Post No. 1 with a nod. The girl blinked
at the distant post, then at her collie, after which
she pointed to the post.</p>
<p>"Run on over there, Mac!" she pleaded. "That's
a good boy!"</p>
<p>The little collie wagged his tail, peered expectantly
at her, and barked. But he did not stir. He
had not the faintest idea what she wanted him to
do, although he would have been glad to do it.
Wherefore, the bark.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Presently (after several more fruitless entreaties
which reduced the dog to a paroxysm of barking)
she led her collie out of the enclosure, strangling
her sobs as she went. And again the Master swore
softly, but with much venomous ardor.</p>
<p>And now, at the judge's command, the Mistress
led Lad into the quadrangle and up to the central
post. She was very pale, but her thoroughbred
nerves were rocklike in their steadiness. She, like
Lad, was of the breed that goes down fighting.
Lad walked majestically beside her, his eyes dark
with sorrow over his goddess' unhappiness, which
he could not at all understand and which he so
longed to lighten. Hitherto, at dog shows, Lad had
been the only representative of The Place to grieve.</p>
<p>He thrust his nose lovingly into the Mistress'
hand, as he moved along with her to the post; and
he whined, under his breath.</p>
<p>Ranging up beside the judge, the Mistress took
off Lad's leash and collar. Stroking the dog's upraised
head, she pointed to the No. 1 Post.</p>
<p>"Over there," she bade him.</p>
<p>Lad looked in momentary doubt at her, and then
at the post. He did not see the connection, nor
know what he was expected to do. So, again he
looked at the sorrowing face bent over him.</p>
<p>"Lad!" said the Mistress gently, pointing once
more to the Post. "Go!"</p>
<p>Now, there was not one dog at The Place that
had not known from puppy-hood the meaning of<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</SPAN></span>
the word "Go!" coupled with the pointing of a
finger. Fingers had pointed, hundreds of times,
to kennels or to the open doorways or to canoe-bottoms
or to car tonneaus or to whatsoever spot
the dog in question was desired to betake himself.
And the word "Go!" had always accompanied the
motion.</p>
<p>Lad still did not see why he was to go where the
steady finger indicated. There was nothing of interest
over there; no one to attack at command.
But he went.</p>
<p>He walked for perhaps fifty feet; then he turned
and looked back.</p>
<p>"Go on!" called the voice that was his loved Law.</p>
<p>And he went on. Unquestionably, as uncomprehendingly,
he went, because the Mistress told him
to! Since she had brought him out before this annoying
concourse of humans to show off his obedience
all he could do was to obey. The knowledge
of her mysterious sadness made him the more
anxious to please her.</p>
<p>So on he went. Presently, as his progress
brought him alongside a white post, he heard the
Mistress call again. He wheeled and started toward
her at a run. Then he halted again, almost
in mid-air.</p>
<p>For her hand was up in front of her, palm forward,
in a gesture that had meant "Stop!" from
the time he had been wont to run into the house
with muddy feet, as a puppy.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Lad stood, uncertain. And now the Mistress was
pointing another way and calling:</p>
<p>"Go on! Lad! Go on!"</p>
<p>Confused, the dog started in the new direction.
He went slowly. Once or twice he stopped and
looked back in perplexity at her; but, as often, came
the steady-voiced order:</p>
<p>"Go on! Lad! Go <i>on!</i>"</p>
<p>On plodded Lad. Vaguely, he was beginning to
hate this new game played without known rules
and in the presence of a crowd. Lad abominated a
crowd.</p>
<p>But it was the Mistress' bidding, and in her
dear voice his quick hearing could read what no
human could read—a hard-fought longing to cry.
It thrilled the big dog, this subtle note of grief.
And all he could do to ease her sorrow, apparently,
was to obey this queer new whim of hers as best
he might.</p>
<p>He had continued his unwilling march as far as
another post when the welcome word of recall came—the
recall that would bring him close again to
his sorrowing deity. With a bound he started back
to her.</p>
<p>But, for the second time, came that palm-forward
gesture and the cry of "Stop! Go <i>back!</i>"</p>
<p>Lad paused reluctantly and stood panting. This
thing was getting on his fine-strung nerves. And
nervousness ever made him pant.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>The Mistress pointed in still another direction,
and she was calling almost beseechingly:</p>
<p>"Go on, Lad! Go <i>on!</i>"</p>
<p>Her pointing hand waved him ahead and, as before,
he followed its guidance. Walking heavily,
his brain more and more befogged, Lad obeyed.
This time he did not stop to look to her for instructions.
From the new vehemence of the Mistress'
gesture she had apparently been ordering him
off the field in disgrace, as he had seen puppies
ordered from the house. Head and tail down, he
went.</p>
<p>But, as he passed by the third of those silly posts,
she recalled him. Gleeful to know he was no longer
in disgrace he galloped toward the Mistress; only
to be halted again by that sharp gesture and sharper
command before he had covered a fifth of the
distance from the post to herself.</p>
<p>The Mistress was actually pointing again—more
urgently than ever—and in still another direction.
Now her voice had in it a quiver that even the
humans could detect; a quiver that made its sweetness
all but sharp.</p>
<p>"Go on, Lad! Go <i>on!</i>"</p>
<p>Utterly bewildered at his usually moodless Mistress'
crazy mood and spurred by the sharp reprimand
in her voice Lad moved away at a crestfallen
walk. Four times he stopped and looked back at
her, in piteous appeal, asking forgiveness of the
unknown fault for which she was ordering him<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</SPAN></span>
away; but always he was met by the same fierce
"Go <i>on!</i>"</p>
<p>And he went.</p>
<p>Of a sudden, from along the tight-crowded edges
of the quadrangle, went up a prodigious handclapping
punctuated by such foolish and ear-grating
yells as "Good <i>boy!</i>" "<i>Good</i> old Laddie!" "He
<i>did</i> it!"</p>
<p>And through the looser volume of sound came
the Mistress' call of:</p>
<p>"Laddie! Here, <i>Lad!</i>"</p>
<p>In doubt, Lad turned to face her. Hesitatingly
he went toward her expecting at every step that
hateful command of "Go <i>back!</i>"</p>
<p>But she did not send him back. Instead, she was
running forward to meet him. And out of her face
the sorrow—but not the desire to cry—had been
swept away by a tremulous smile.</p>
<p>Down on her knees beside Lad the Mistress
flung herself, and gathered his head in her arms
and told him what a splendid, dear dog he was and
how proud she was of him.</p>
<p>All Lad had done was to obey orders, as any dog
of his brain and heart and home training might
have obeyed them. Yet, for some unexplained reason,
he had made the Mistress wildly happy. And
that was enough for Lad.</p>
<p>Forgetful of the crowd, he licked at her caressing
hands in puppylike ecstasy; then he rolled in
front of her; growling ferociously and catching one<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</SPAN></span>
of her little feet in his mighty jaws, as though to
crush it. This foot-seizing game was Lad's favorite
romp with the Mistress. With no one else
would he condescend to play it, and the terrible
white teeth never exerted the pressure of a tenth
of an ounce on the slipper they gripped.</p>
<p>"Laddie!" the Mistress was whispering to him,
"<i>Laddie!</i> You did it, old friend. You did it terribly
badly I suppose, and of course we'll lose. But
we'll 'lose right.' We've made the contest. You
<i>did</i> it!"</p>
<p>And now a lot of noisy and bothersome humans
had invaded the quadrangle and wanted to paw
him and pat him and praise him. Wherefore Lad
at once got to his feet and stood aloofly disdainful
of everything and everybody. He detested pawing;
and, indeed, any outsider's handling.</p>
<p>Through the congratulating knot of folk the
Wall Street Farmer elbowed his way to the Mistress.</p>
<p>"Well, well!" he boomed. "I must compliment
you on Lad! A really intelligent dog. I was surprised.
I didn't think any dog could make the
round unless he'd been trained to it. Quite a dog!
But, of course, you had to call to him a good many
times. And you were signaling pretty steadily
every second. Those things count heavily against
you, you know. In fact, they goose-egg your
chances if another entrant can go the round without
so much coaching. Now my dog Lochinvar<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</SPAN></span>
never needs the voice at all and he needs only one
slight gesture for each manœuver. Still, Lad did
very nicely. He—why does the sulky brute pull
away when I try to pat him?"</p>
<p>"Perhaps," ventured the Mistress, "perhaps he
didn't catch your name."</p>
<p>Then she and the Master led Lad back to his
bench where the local contingent made much of
him, and where—after the manner of a high-bred
dog at a Show—he drank much water and would
eat nothing.</p>
<p>When the Mistress went again to the quadrangle,
the crowd was banked thicker than ever, for Lochinvar
III was about to compete for the Maury
Trophy.</p>
<p>The Wall Street Farmer and the English trainer
had delayed the Event for several minutes while
they went through a strenuous dispute. As the
Mistress came up she heard Glure end the argument
by booming:</p>
<p>"I tell you that's all rot. Why shouldn't he
'work' for me just as well as he'd 'work' for you?
I'm his Master, ain't I?"</p>
<p>"No, sir," replied the trainer, glumly. "Only his
<i>owner</i>."</p>
<p>"I've had him a whole week," declared the Wall
Street Farmer, "and I've put him through those
rounds a dozen times. He knows me and he goes
through it all like clockwork for me. Here! Give
me his leash!"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>He snatched the leather cord from the protesting
trainer and, with a yank at it, started with
Lochinvar toward the central post. The aristocratic
Merle resented the uncalled-for tug by a
flash of teeth. Then he thought better of the
matter, swallowed his resentment and paced along
beside his visibly proud owner.</p>
<p>A murmur of admiration went through the
crowd at sight of Lochinvar as he moved forward.
The dog was a joy to look on. Such a dog as one
sees perhaps thrice in a lifetime. Such a dog for
perfect beauty, as were Southport Sample, Grey
Mist, Howgill Rival, Sunnybank Goldsmith or
Squire of Tytton. A dog, for looks, that was the
despair of all competing dogdom.</p>
<p>Proudly perfect in carriage, in mist-gray coat, in
a hundred points—from the noble pale-eyed head
to the long massy brush—Lochinvar III made
people catch their breath and stare. Even the Mistress'
heart went out—though with a tinge of
shame for disloyalty to Lad—at his beauty.</p>
<p>Arrived at the central post, the Wall Street
Farmer unsnapped the leash. Then, one hand on
the Merle's head and the other holding a half-smoked
cigar between two pudgy fingers, he smiled
upon the tense onlookers.</p>
<p>This was his Moment. This was the supreme
moment which had cost him nearly ten thousand
dollars in all. He was due, at last, to win a trophy
that would be the talk of all the sporting universe.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</SPAN></span>
These country-folk who had won lesser prizes from
under his very nose—how they would stare, after
this, at his gun-room treasures!</p>
<p>"Ready, Mr. Glure?" asked the Judge.</p>
<p>"All ready!" graciously returned the Wall Street
Farmer.</p>
<p>Taking a pull at his thick cigar, and replacing
it between the first two fingers of his right hand,
he pointed majestically with the same hand to the
first post.</p>
<p>No word of command was given; yet Lochinvar
moved off at a sweeping run directly in the line
laid out by his owner's gesture.</p>
<p>As the Merle came alongside the post the Wall
Street Farmer snapped his fingers. Instantly
Lochinvar dropped to a halt and stood moveless,
looking back for the next gesture.</p>
<p>This "next gesture" was wholly impromptu. In
snapping his fingers the Wall Street Farmer had
not taken sufficient account of the cigar stub he
held. The snapping motion had brought the fire-end
of the stub directly between his first and second
fingers, close to the palm. The red coal bit deep
into those two tenderest spots of all the hand.</p>
<p>With a reverberating snort the Wall Street
Farmer dropped the cigar-butt and shook his
anguished hand rapidly up and down, in the first
sting of pain. The loose fingers slapped together
like the strands of an obese cat-of-nine-tails.</p>
<p>And this was the gesture which Lochinvar beheld,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</SPAN></span>
as he turned to catch the signal for his next move.</p>
<p>Now, the frantic St. Vitus shaking of the hand
and arm, accompanied by a clumsy step-dance and
a mouthful of rich oaths, forms no signal known to
the very cleverest of "working" collies. Neither
does the inserting of two burned fingers into the
signaler's mouth—which was the second motion the
Merle noted.</p>
<p>Ignorant as to the meaning of either of these
unique signals the dog stood, puzzled. The Wall
Street Farmer recovered at once from his fit of
babyish emotion, and motioned his dog to go on to
the next post.</p>
<p>The Merle did not move. Here, at last, was a
signal he understood perfectly well. Yet, after the
manner of the best-taught "working" dogs, he had
been most rigidly trained from earliest days to finish
the carrying out of one order before giving heed
to another.</p>
<p>He had received the signal to go in one direction.
He had obeyed. He had then received the
familiar signal to halt and to await instructions.
Again he had obeyed. Next, he had received a
wildly emphatic series of signals whose meaning
he could not read. A long course of training told
him he must wait to have these gestures explained
to him before undertaking to obey the simple signal
that had followed.</p>
<p>This, in his training kennel, had been the rule.
When a pupil did not understand an order he must<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</SPAN></span>
stay where he was until he could be made to understand.
He must not dash away to carry out a
later order that might perhaps be intended for some
other pupil.</p>
<p>Wherefore, the Merle stood stock still. The Wall
Street Farmer repeated the gesture of pointing
toward the next post. Inquiringly, Lochinvar
watched him. The Wall Street Farmer made the
gesture a third time—to no purpose other than to
deepen the dog's look of inquiry. Lochinvar was
abiding, steadfastly, by his hard-learned lessons of
the Scottish moorland days.</p>
<p>Someone in the crowd tittered. Someone else
sang out delightedly:</p>
<p>"Lad wins!"</p>
<p>The Wall Street Farmer heard. And he proceeded
to mislay his easily-losable self control.
Again, these inferior country folk seemed about to
wrest from him a prize he had deemed all his own,
and to rejoice in the prospect.</p>
<p>"You mongrel cur!" he bellowed. "Get along
there!"</p>
<p>This diction meant nothing to Lochinvar, except
that his owner's temper was gone—and with it his
scanty authority.</p>
<p>Glure saw red—or he came as near to seeing it
as can anyone outside a novel. He made a plunge
across the quadrangle, seized the beautiful Merle by
the scruff of the neck and kicked him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Now, here was something the dog could understand
with entire ease. This loud-mouthed vulgarian
giant, whom he had disliked from the first,
was daring to lay violent hands on him—on Champion
Lochinvar III, the dog-aristocrat that had
always been handled with deference and whose ugly
temper had never been trained out of him.</p>
<p>As a growl of hot resentment went up from the
onlookers, a far more murderously resentful growl
went up from the depths of Lochinvar's furry
throat.</p>
<p>In a flash, the Merle had wrenched free from his
owner's neck-grip. And, in practically the same
moment, his curved eye-teeth were burying themselves
deep in the calf of the Wall Street Farmer's
leg.</p>
<p>Then the trainer and the judge seized on the
snarlingly floundering pair. What the outraged
trainer said, as he ran up, would have brought a
blush to the cheek of a waterside bartender. What
the judge said (in a tone of no regret, whatever)
was:</p>
<p>"Mr. Glure, you have forfeited the match by moving
more than three feet from the central post.
But your dog had already lost it by refusing to
'work' at your command. Lad wins the Maury
Trophy."</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>So it was that the Gold Hat, as well as the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</SPAN></span>
modest little silver "Best Collie" cup, went to The
Place that night. Setting the golden monstrosity on
the trophy shelf, the Master surveyed it for a moment;
then said:</p>
<p>"That Gold Hat is even bigger than it looks.
It is big enough to hold a thousand yards of surgical
dressings; and gallons of medicine and broth,
besides. And that's what it is going to hold. To-morrow
I'll send it to Vanderslice, at the Red Cross
Headquarters."</p>
<p>"Good!" applauded the Mistress. "Oh, <i>good!</i>
send it in Lad's name."</p>
<p>"I shall. I'll tell Vanderslice how it was won;
and I'll ask him to have it melted down to buy hospital
supplies. If that doesn't take off its curse
of unsportsmanliness, nothing will. I'll get you
something to take its place, as a trophy."</p>
<p>But there was no need to redeem that promise. A
week later, from Headquarters, came a tiny scarlet
enamel cross, whose silver back bore the inscription:</p>
<p>"<i>To SUNNYBANK LAD; in memory of a
generous gift to Humanity.</i>"</p>
<p>"Its face-value is probably fifty cents, Lad,
dear," commented the Mistress, as she strung the
bit of scarlet on the dog's shaggy throat. "But its
heart value is at least a billion dollars. Besides—you
can wear it. And nobody, outside a nightmare,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</SPAN></span>
could possibly have worn kind, good Mr. Hugh Lester
Maury's Gold Hat. I must write to Mr. Glure
and tell him all about it. How tickled he'll be!
Won't he, Laddie?"</p>
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