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Page 19
"Anyhow," whispered the Mistress as the Master led his stolidly
gigantic entry toward the enclosure, "Bruce can't get worse than
a third-prize yellow ribbon. We ought to be a little proud of
that. There are only three entries in his class."
But even that bit of barren pride was denied the awkward
youngster's sponsor. As the three pups entered the enclosure, the
judge's half-shut eyes rested on Bruce--at first idly, then in
real amazement. Crossing to the Master, before giving the signal
for the first maneuvers, he said in tired disgust--
"Please take your measly St. Bernard monstrosity out of the ring.
This is a class for collies, not for freaks. I refuse to judge
that pup as a collie."
"He's a thoroughbred," crossly protested the Master. "I have his
certified pedigree. There's no better blood in--"
"I don't care what his ancestors were," snapped the judge. "He's
a throw-back to the dinosaur or the Great Auk. And I won't judge
him as a collie. Take him out of the ring. You're delaying the
others."
A judge's decision is final. Red with angry shame and suppressing
an unworthy desire to kick the luckless Bruce, the Master led the
pup back to his allotted bench. Bruce trotted cheerily along with
a maddening air of having done something to be proud of. Deaf to
the Mistress's sympathy and to her timidly voiced protests, the
Master scrawled on an envelope-back the words "For Sale. Name
Your Own Price," and pinned it on the edge of the bench.
"Here endeth the first lesson in collie-raising, so far as The
Place is concerned," he decreed, stalking back to the ringside to
watch the rest of the judging.
The Mistress lingered behind, to bestow a furtive consolatory pat
upon the disqualified Bruce. Then she joined her husband beside
the ring.
It was probably by accident that her skirt brushed sharply
against the bench-edge as she went--knocking the "For Sale" sign
down into the litter of straw below.
But a well-meaning fellow-exhibitor, across the aisle, saw the
bit of paper flutter floorward. This good soul rescued it from
the straw and pinned it back in place.
(The world is full of helpful folk. That is perhaps one reason
why the Millennium's date is still so indefinite.)
An hour later, a man touched the Master on the arm.
"That dog of yours, on Bench 48," began the stranger, "the big pup
with the 'For Sale' sign on his bench. What do you want for him?"
The Mistress was several feet away, talking to the superintendent
of the show. Guiltily, yet gratefully, the Master led the would-
be purchaser back to the benches, without attracting his wife's
notice.
A few minutes afterward he returned to where she and the
superintendent were chatting.
"Well," said the Master, trying to steel himself against his
wife's possible disappointment, "I found a buyer for Bruce--a Dr.
Halding, from New York. He likes the pup. Says Bruce looks as if
he was strong and had lots of endurance. I wonder if he wants him
for a sledge-dog. He paid me fifteen dollars for him; and it was
a mighty good bargain. I was lucky to get more than a nickel for
such a cur."
The Master shot forth this speech in almost a single rapid
breath. Then, before his wife could reply,--and without daring to
look into her troubled eyes,--he discovered an acquaintance on
the far side of the ring and bustled off to speak to him. The
Master, you see, was a husband, not a hero.
The Mistress turned a worried gaze on the superintendent.
"It was best, I suppose," she said bravely. "We agreed he must be
sold, if the judge decided he was not any good. But I'm sorry.
For I'm fond of him. I'm sorry he is going to live in New York,
too. A big city is no place for a big dog. I hope this Dr.
Halding will be nice to the poor puppy."
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