Buff: A Collie, and Other Dog-Stories

by Albert Payson Terhune

  HUMAN-INTEREST STUFF

  Happiness, to Jeff Titus, had become a fine art. It had become so whenhe married Eve Wallace, a little wisp of a city girl who had come tothe Kentucky mountain hinterland to cure a set of weak lungs--and whohad not only wedded but well-nigh civilised the lanky youngmountaineer.

  Happiness had remained a fine art for Jeff, up there on his barehillside farm, with Eve. It had remained so, for the most part, eversince his wedding. And now, in a single breath, happiness had taken aplace among the lost arts.

  The "single breath" had been supplied by a sour east wind which hadsmitten Eve as she stood in the shack dooryard waiting for herhusband's home-coming. She was thinly clad, and she was in aperspiration from working in her flower garden. Her lungs were stillweak. The east wind did the rest. By night she had a heavy cold. Thethird morning, pneumonia flung out its flaming red No Surrender signalon each of her fever-scorched cheeks.

  And life, to Jeff Titus, all at once became a horror.

  A frightened anguish gripped him by the throat and shook him to thebewildered soul; as he crouched night after night beside the slab bedwhere tossed and muttered the delirious little wisp of a woman who wasat once his mate and his saint.

  Eve was so tiny, so fragile, so good! It wasn't fair that thisbullying unseen spirit of illness should torture and harry her and sapthe life of her--while the man who right blithely would have beenburned to a crisp to please her, sat helpless at the bedside, unableto do a thing to drive forth the damnable visitant! Jeff Titus dweltupon the theme of his own impotence to save her; he swore venomously,and in the peculiarly hideous diction of Kentucky mountaineerblasphemy.

  There were doctors, of course, in the county seat of Duneka,thirty-two miles away. But they might as well have been in Austria,for all the good they could do the sick girl. Jeff could not desertEve to go in quest of such a physician. Nor could he send one of hismile-distant neighbours. He knew that. It would be of no use.

  Those city doctors had no convenient means of getting over thethirty-odd miles of half-inaccessible trail, to his hinterland farm.Assuredly none of them was going to make the journey on foot or onmule-back, leaving his town practice for days, at the behest of ahill-billy who perhaps could not or would not pay for the sacrifice.

  Meantime, Eve was growing worse, steadily worse. Even the ignorantJeff could see that. So, apparently, could the only sharer of hisday-and-night vigils--a huge and lionlike dog which lay pressed closeto the far side of the bed, and which all Titus' commands could notkeep out of the sick-room.

  This dog, Robin Adair, was the joy of Eve's heart--or he had been,when her heart still could hold joy and not merely fever and delirium.One of Eve's ragged hill-billy admirers had given the dog to her; inthe old days, when Robin was a roly-poly mass of tawny-brown fluff, nobigger than a Persian cat.

  The dog had grown into a shaggy giant. A passing seed-catalogue manhad told Eve he was a collie--a breed of which she had heard, in avague fashion, as emanating from Scotland. And she had named him RobinAdair; after the hero of a Scotch song her mother had been wont tosing. He was Robin, for short. When she had married Jeff Titus, shehad brought her beloved collie to live at the mountain shack.

  From the moment his mistress fell ill, Robin had not once willinglystirred from her bedside. Drinking little, eating nothing, the greatdog had lain there, his sorrowing brown eyes fixed on the small whitefigure in the big slab bed. But of late he was beginning to vary thevigil by low-voiced whines, from time to time. And once or twice hishuge body quivered as if in physical pain.

  It was on the dawn of the fourth day that Robin got to his feet with aleap, and, pointing his heavy muzzle skyward, set the still room toreverberating with a yell that was nothing short of unearthly.

  Jeff, starting from his daze of misery, made as though to throttle thebrute that had broken in on the invalid's unresting rest. Then,remembering Eve's affection for the collie, he contented himself withpicking Robin up bodily and bearing him towards the door; with theintent of putting him out of the house.

  The door, before Jeff could reach it, was flung open from outside. Onthe threshold stood a ramrodlike figure in rusty black. The caller wasthe Reverend Ephraim Stair--Methodist circuit-rider for the up-Statecounties, and a man whose brain and heart had long since made him theblindly obeyed autocrat of his scattered mountain flock.

  "What's wrong, Titus?" was his wondering greeting as his sharp oldeyes flashed from the man with the big dog in his arms to theeternally whispering little form on the bed. "I heard a scream, as Iwas riding past, and----"

  "Oh, parson!" gasped Jeff in babbling relief, dumping Robin on thepuncheon floor and gripping the circuit-rider by both hands. "ForGawd's sake, _do_ suthin' fer her! She acts like--like she ain't goin'to git well none!"

  Loud through the mountains were the praises of Stair's medical lore.Many were the tales of sick folk he had cured; when the old women hadgiven them up and had begun gruesomely relishful preparations for thefuneral. Jeff Titus clutched at his unexpected presence, as at alife-belt. Half in superstitious awe, he glanced at the dog whoseprovidential screech had made the clergyman halt in his brisk ridefrom one county seat to the next.

  Meantime, Stair had crossed to the bed, and, on his knees beside it,was examining the stricken Eve. Jeff came up behind him, standingawkwardly and with open mouth, in expectation of some miracle.

  But no miracle was vouchsafed. Instead the clergyman asked one or twoquestions as to the illness' course, felt the patient's pulse and hertorrid cheek, then ordered his host to go and fetch in his saddlebags.

  "My medicine-kit is in them," he explained. "And you can stable myhorse, too. I'm going to stay."

  "She--she's goin' to git on all right, now you're here, ain't she?"pleaded Titus ingratiatingly, pausing at the door.

  "Get my saddlebags!" was the non-committal retort. "Jump! Then you canheat some water. Wait! Before you go, open those windows. And leavethe door open. Isn't this poor child having enough trouble inbreathing; without your sealing the room hermetically?"

  "Sick folks hadn't oughter be let have cold air tetch 'em, I've allersheard," Jeff defended himself, nevertheless obeying. "It gives'em----"

  "It gives them life!" retorted Stair. "Now get those saddlebags!"

  Next morning Eve was perceptibly worse: the breathing was morelaboured; the fever blazed higher. This in spite of Stair and hisceaseless ministrations. Stark despair tore at the husband's throat.

  Following Stair, as the circuit-rider left the room for a moment towash his hands at the pump, Titus demanded fiercely:

  "She's a-aimin' to die, ain't she? Spit out the truth, man! I got aright to hear it!"

  "I can't say," answered Stair, taking no offence at the furiousmanner. "She is in the midst of the crisis now. It is theturning-point in such cases. If she rallies from that--Meanwhile wecan only hope--and work. It is in God's hands. She----"

  "In Gawd's hands!" mocked Jeff, wildly. "In _Gawd's_ hands, hey?You're Gawd-a'mighty fond of blattin' 'bout Gawd, parson! But I takenotice He ain't a-doin' nothin' fer that pore sick gal of mine, inyonder. Why ain't He? Where is He, anyhow, if He cain't----"

  "He is _here_," answered Stair very quietly. "Here, and in thatdelirious girl's room, back there. He is wherever His children cry outto Him in sorrow and pain--just as, in your inmost heart, you arecrying to Him now. If His children are too deaf or too scared or toonoisy, in their grief, to know He has come at their call, then thefault is with their own stupidity; and not with the all-pityingFather, who is carrying them through the ordeal."

  He pushed past the mouthing Titus and went back to his post in thesick-room.

  On the second morning Eve was in a heavy sleep. Her once-parchedforehead was moist. Stair, with a jerk of his thumb, motioned Jeff outinto the dooryard. On his withered face was the glow of a conqueror.Harshly, as if in doubt of his own self-control, the circuit-ridersaid:

  "The crisis is past. She has turned the corner. I think she willlive. The rest
depends on nursing--on building her up. You may thankGod, if you care to. Or if you still think He hasn't been here----"

  "If He ain't," choked Titus ecstatically, "He sent a damn' finesubstitoot:--meanin' no disrespec'. I--I reckon, parson--I reckonyou-all knows how small I feel; 'bout blabbin' like I did.An'--an'--Oh, you're dead _sure_ she's a-goin' to live? There--thereain't--there ain't nothing I c'n say! But--but----"

  Incontinently Jeff Titus bolted around the side of the house and outof sight into the woods. When he returned, an hour later, he wascarrying a half-armful of kindling. Circumstantially and at somelength he explained to Stair that he had spent the entire hour inlooking for it. Stair accepted the explanation in grave credulity andforebore to glance towards the high-piled heap of kindling in thewoodshed.

  At noon Eve awoke. She was very weak, very tired, very thin andbig-eyed. But she was _alive_.

  And in Jeff's heart there was something that made him yearn to howlaloud in rapture and roll on the grass, and to join the church allover again, and to thrash some mythical man for speaking mythical illof Ephraim Stair; and to turn over his farm and his savings to foreignmissions, and to get very drunk indeed, and to buy Eve a gold watch.

  Being a Kentucky mountaineer, and a Titus to boot, he contentedhimself with grinning down upon his sick wife and grunting:

  "Feel better? That's nice. Be all right, pretty soon, now. Reckon I'dbest be gittin' in some more wood, b'fore it rains. So long!"

  Robin Adair, like his master, knew Eve was on the way to health again.But being only a dog and not a mountaineer, Robin did not sneak out ofthe house to hide his emotion. He stood beside the bed, his dark eyesaglow, his furry bulk quivering all over with puppyish joy; andwagging his plumed tail, frantically, every time his mistress lookedat him.

  * * * * *

  One evening a few days later the two men were smoking together in thedooryard before turning in. Eve had been made comfortable for thenight and was asleep.

  She had gained a little ground, but her convalescence was maddeninglyslow and uncertain to Jeff. The horror of the past fortnight or so hadleft him nerve-shaken. In spite of all Stair's assurances, he couldnot throw off his fear for her safety.

  "She has been through a terrible illness," patiently explained Stairfor the hundredth time. "Her body and her mind are exhausted. Shelies there, like that, because she is resting. She is resting, becausenature is making her rest. She is steadily getting better. Baraccidents, she is practically out of danger. Her strength is beginningto seep back, too. It would come back faster, of course, if she couldrally her tired mind to some great interest in life--something thatwouldn't tire or excite her too much. It would help Mother Naturealong. An interest in life is a wonderful aid, in convalescence. A bitof unexpected good news, for instance----"

  "Good news, hey?" mused Jeff, his bony hands supporting his leathernface as he cogitated. "Good news? H'm!"

  "Yes," returned Stair, "that, or something pleasant to look forwardto. When she's well enough, you might take her to Duneka, orsomewhere, for a little outing. Tell her so. It may brighten herto----"

  "Nope," dissented Jeff. "It wouldn't. I tried, to-day. Told her shemust git well, right smart, now; so's we c'd have a ja'ntin',somewheres. She said she was so tired, she reckoned she'd jest stayquiet to home a spell. It didn't brace her, a wee peckle. Funny, too!'Cause jest before she was took sick, she an' me was projectin', ahull lot, on a trip we was plannin' to make. She'd got her heart realsot on it--'count of suthin' she'd read into the Duneka _Chron'cle_.The fall County Fair is on, to Duneka, this week, you know. An' the_Chron'cle_ told how they're lottin' on holdin' the State dawg-showthere, the fourth day of the fair. That's the day after to-morror. The_Chron'cle_ said there was to be reel silver cups offered fer bestdawgs of a lot of breeds. Collies was one of the breeds it spokeabout."

  "Well?" asked Stair, in no special interest, as Jeff paused.

  "Wal," went on the mountaineer sheepishly, "you-all know how muchstore Eve sets by Robin, here. She thinks he's jest the finest dawg onthis yer planet. She was a-sayin' there couldn't be no finer dawg inthe collie bunch, at the show, than what Robin is. An' she was honin'fer us to take him down there an' let him git a chance at that silvercup. Wal, whatever Eve hones fer, she's a-goin' to git--if it'sgittable an' if I'm in reach to git it fer her. So I 'greed we'd takeRobin to the show. She was all het up over the idee of a-gittin' that'ere cup. An' she was a-sayin' how grand it'd be to have the paperprint Robin's name as winnin' it, so's she c'd send a copy of thepaper to her folks, down Looeyville way, an' all that. Wal, that's allthere is to it," he ended with a loud sigh.

  "Why is that all there is to it?" demanded Stair with suddeninspiration. "Why can't you take the dog down to the show yourself,if he really has a chance for the cup? That cup, and the notice in thepaper, would do more to stir Eve up and to renew her interest in lifethan any other good news I can think of. And it'll be something tolook forward to. Go ahead and do it!"

  "Good! Oh, _good_!" exulted a feeble little voice in the room behindthem.

  Eve had waked, during their talk. And, in her tones, as she applaudedthe plan, rang the first interest she had shown since the beginning ofher illness. Stair, listening, shut his thin lips on a belatedobjection that had come into his mind while the mountaineer wasapplauding his chance suggestion.

  It had just occurred to the circuit-rider that if Robin should not beadjudged worthy of the cup, the disappointment was likely to do theinvalid more harm than a week of nursing could counteract. But it wastoo late to voice that warning now. Eve had heard. Eve waspathetically eager over the scheme. And, kicking himself mentally forhis own impulsiveness, the clergyman held his peace.

  He knew nothing about dogs, from a show standpoint--and mightily hehoped Eve's estimate of her pet might be correct. But he doubted--moreand more, he doubted. Collies, fit to win silver cups, do not oftenfind their way into the mountaineer cabins in the Kentucky hinterland.

  Timidly, Stair sought to wet-blanket the venture. But again he was toolate. At last Eve had the desired "interest in life," an interest thatthreatened to bring back her fever. The dog-show virus is potent, asany exhibitor can testify. It has a mystic lure. Jeff, once he graspedthe idea, was swept off his feet by it.

  * * * * *

  The fall County Fair at Duneka had begun its fourth day. That day'sstar feature was to be the "all breeds" dog-show, to be held in theAgricultural Building.

  A gratifying number of dogs was benched in the main hall of theramshackle structure; early on the morning of the show. Two stewardswere busy receiving the fast-arriving entrants, assigning to themtheir places in the double aisles of wire-partitioned andstraw-littered "benches," and assessing late-comers the usual extrafees for "post-entries."

  To these grievously overworked functionaries, in the thick of theirlabours, appeared a lanky farmer of the true mountaineer type. He wasclad in store-clothes that sat on his angular figure as might ahorse-blanket on a washboard. By a rope, the hill-billy led a largeand shaggy dog whose rough, tawny coat had been washed and brusheduntil it shone like bronze and fluffed out like the hair of aCircassian beauty.

  "Collie dawg," announced Jeff, "owned by Miz Jeff Titus. Entered forthe silver cup."

  Patiently the stewards explained to him that a dog must be entered forone or more of the show's regular classes, and that the coveted silvercup was to go to the collie adjudged best in the whole show. They alsoinformed Jeff that as his was a post-entry, it would cost him an extrafifty cents to exhibit his dog. He was told that in addition to thisit would cost him a dollar for every class in which he might enterRobin.

  As most of this was Greek to the puzzled exhibitor, one of thestewards asked if the dog had ever before been shown. On receiving anegative answer he took one look at the uninterested Robin andsuggested he be entered for the "novice class," alone.

  As soon as he could be made to understand that a collie winning, inthe novice
class, would stand as good a chance for the cup as wouldany other, Titus paid over his money and led Robin to the stall in thecollie section corresponding to the number the steward had tied to thedog's collar.

  After mooring Robin's rope to the ring in his wire-partitioned bench,and getting him some water, Jeff had leisure to take in his oddsurroundings.

  Dogs--_dogs_--DOGS! Everywhere dogs--more dogs than Jeff had knownexisted--dogs of all breeds and sizes, from Peke to St. Bernard. Theiron-girdered roof was re-echoing with their clangour. They werebarking or yapping in fifty different keys, but all with the sameearnestness.

  Jeff saw that each breed had a bench-section to itself. In the hall'scentre, to which the bench aisles converged, were two wood-and-wireinclosures in each of which were a low central platform and a cornertable and a chair. On the tables were neat piles of red and yellow andblue ribbons alongside a record-ledger. Handlers were everywhere busymaking their pets ready for the judging.

  Crowds of onlookers had already begun to filter through the aisles.Jeff heard someone say that the judging was about to begin, and thatcollies were to be among the first breeds shown.

  His general curiosity sated, Titus fell to examining the dogs whichwere to be Robin's competitors. And at once his mountaineer scowlmerged into a grin. Here, forsooth, was nothing wherewith the splendidRobin need fear comparison.

  Why, of all the nineteen collies on exhibition, there was not onewithin three inches of Robin's height, nor one which bore any realresemblance to him. These others were strongly slender chaps, withthin heads and tapering noses and tulip ears and slant eyes. Whereas,Robin's mighty head was almost as broad and heavy as a Newfoundland's;his ears were pricked like a wolf's, and his honest brown eyes werelarge and round. No, most assuredly he was not in the very least likeany other collie entered in the show--or in any exhibition ofthoroughbreds since the birth of time.

  Poor old Robin Adair was probably more collie than anything else; hemay even have been a shade more than half-collie. But in his veins ranalso the mixed blood of many another breed, Newfoundlandpredominating.

  "Look over there!" Jeff heard a dapper collie-handler in a linenduster say in guarded tones to a woman who was sifting talcum powderinto her gold-and-white collie pup's fluffy coat. "Over at Bench 89!What is that Thing? A dog--or a hippopotamus?"

  As the woman turned to observe the luckless Robin, Jeff Titus strolledacross to the man who had called her attention to the dog. His eyeswere glinting flares behind their lowered lids, and his lips twistedinto something which looked like a smile and wasn't. He said softly:

  "Beggin' you-all's pardon, mister, what was you a-happenin' to call mydawg?"

  The man in the linen duster gave one glance at the leathern facepeering down so intensely into his. Then, shakily, he made reply:

  "I--I wasn't speaking of your dog, sir. I was speaking of the dog inthe next bench to his. I--I read the number wrong. Yours is--a--agrand--a grand--collie, sir."

  He gulped, and sped down the aisles on a new-remembered errandsomewhere. Jeff turned back to Robin, his mind freed of its momentaryangry doubt.

  The collie classes were called a few minutes later. The first to bejudged were, as usual, the male puppies. Jeff, watching theperformance of the entrants, saw how the judging was done. First thedogs were made to march around the ring. Then, in ones or twos, theywere placed on the platform while the little tweed-clad judge studiedthem and felt them all over. After that, the judge wrote certainnumbers in the ring-steward's book and handed to the owner of thewinning dog a blue ribbon. A red ribbon went to the owner of thesecond best, a yellow ribbon to the third, and a white ribbon to thefourth.

  Every one of the several collie classes, it seemed, must be judged inthat same deliberate way; before the winners of all classes couldcompete for a rosette, whose acquisition meant also the winning ofthe silver cup. Jeff began to chafe at the needless delay which mustensue before Robin could receive his merited prize.

  Then, directly after the judging of the puppies, came the noviceclass. Along with only two other entries, Jeff Titus led themajestically unconcerned Robin into the ring. As he passed, a titterswept the quadruple line of railbirds outside the inclosure. Jeff didnot so much as look about him to locate the cause of the mirth. Thesefool city-folks were always laughing at nothing.

  Nor did he note the glare, almost of horror, which the littletweed-clad judge bestowed upon Robin; as Eve's adored pet paced intothe ring. The judge eyed him with much the expression one might expectto see in the visage of a Supreme Court justice who has been asked tohand down an official opinion on a nursery rhyme.

  "Walk your dogs, please!" rasped the judge.

  The parade started. Robin strolled unconcernedly at his lanky master'sside. As he was not a thoroughbred, his nerves were not of thehair-trigger order. The racket and the crowd and the new surroundingsdid not excite or terrify or make him profoundly miserable; as theydid some of the high-strung collies about him. Jeff observed this calmdemeanour and was proud of his dog's bearing.

  The parade was halted. The judge motioned Robin's two competitors tothe platform, squinted at them for a moment, ran his hand over them,examined the spring of their ribs, then their teeth, and various otherdetails,--stood back and studied them--then handed to the owner of onea blue ribbon and to the other a red. The third-prize yellow ribbon hetossed back onto the steward's table.

  The winners of the first and second prizes departed with theircollies. The steward chalked up the next class on the blackboard. ButJeff Titus did not leave the ring. Eyes bulging, cheeks slowly turningfrom tan to brick-hue, he strode over to the judge.

  "Look-a-here, you!" he rumbled in a blend of wrath and dazedincredulity. "What's the meanin' of this-yer? Are you aimin' todoublecross me? My dawg's wuth ten of them ornery critters. He's aheap bigger'n an' huskier, an' he's purtier to look at, too! What theblue blazes do you-all mean by treatin' him thisaway, you hard-biledshrimp? He----"

  With much dignity the little judge turned his back on the angry Titusand started across the ring. But before he had gone two steps Jeff wasonce more confronting him.

  "Look-a-here!" snarled Titus, again, striving to keep himself in hand,"I ain't goin' to lay down under no frame-up! You judged crooked,with my dawg. I c'n prove it. Even if you didn't have the sense to seehe was the best of the hull bilin', you was bound, anyhow, to give himthe yaller ribbon fer third prize. An----"

  "I was bound to do nothing of the sort!" rapped out the exasperatedjudge. "I am here to judge collies, not dinosaurs. I refuse tocountenance the claim that your dog is a collie, by giving him athird-prize ribbon; even in a class of three. So, in this class, Ihave deliberately withheld the third prize. Your dog is not a collie.The Lord alone knows what he is, but he's no collie. That's all. Clearout!"

  For a man with heart or imagination, there is no ordeal more irksomethan to judge dogs. For, in almost every division, there is some suchbeast as Robin Adair;--a dog loved by his owners, who know nothing ofshows or of show points. A judge, in fairness to the better exhibits,must pass over these poor animals; and thereby must cause heartacheand shame to their pathetic owners. It is not a pleasant task. Nor isany phase of dog-judging pleasant. It is a thankless and nerve-rackingjob, at best; and it has a magic quality of turning one's friends intoenemies.

  The little judge at the Duneka show was hardened by long practice.Also, he had all the bristling pluck of a rat-terrier. And he neededit in facing this lean giant in whose slit-eyes the murder-light wasbeginning to smoulder. Jeff half extended one windmill arm in thegeneral direction of the judge's throat. Then he checked himself.

  * * * * *

  It was going to be bad enough to slink home with no cup, but it wouldbe ten-fold worse to go to the hoosgow for mayhem. He pictured sickEve's grief over such a disgrace, and his clenched hand dropped againto his side. Grappling with his temper, the mountaineer wheeled aboutand led the disqualified Robin out of the ring and back to the bench.


  A sweet mess he had made of everything; he and that parson, up yonder!

  They had wrought on Eve's hopes and had made her so gloriouslyconfident that her dear dog was going to sweep all before him and winthe cup! She was lying at home, this minute, her big eyes shining withanticipation, her vivid mind picturing the triumph-scene at the show.How confidently she would be waiting for that cup!

  Jeff had sought so enthusiastically to work out Stair's theory of a"good news" cure! And how was the experiment to result? He must gohome on the morrow and tell Eve not only that he had no cup to showher, but that the judge had actually refused Robin a third-prizeribbon, on the ground that the dog was a mongrel! What effect was thatnews going to have on a sick woman whose swift recovery depended onher spirits?

  Knowing Eve as he did, Jeff was ready to believe it would undo most ofher hard-won convalescence. And at the very least, in her weak state,it was certain to make her cry. Jeff would rather have faced amachine-gun nest than make his gallant little sweetheart cry.

  He began to swear, very softly but very, very zealously. And then hisresourceful mountaineer brain unlimbered and went into action.

  Presently, he arose from the bench, patted Robin absentmindedly on thehead and slouched off towards the end of the hall, where, in a highglass case, were displayed the prize cups and the other trophies.

  Long and minutely he scanned the glittering prizes, especially the cupengraved "Best Collie." And he spelled out the printed legend over thecase--which proclaimed that the cups were supplied by the long-famousjewellery firm of Pinkus Bernstein, of Republic Street, Duneka,Kentucky.

  Ten minutes later, leaving Robin to shift for himself on his bench,Jeff was hiking towards the business streets of the mountainmetropolis. He paused, for a space, at the bank, where he had acarefully scraped-together little account, and he drew forth a goodlyshare of that sum. Then he made his way to the jewellery-store. Aftera half-hour of dickering, he emerged from the shop, bearing a bumpyparcel.

  Returning to the Agricultural Hall, he seated himself once more on thenarrow bench beside the exultantly welcoming Robin, and proceeded tounwind the tissue wrappings of his package. Robin looked on in mildcuriosity. His sense of smell had already told the dog that the parcelcontained nothing of vital interest to him. Yet, because he had beenlonely and a little worried by Jeff's long absence, Robin evinced apolite concern in the undoing of the wrappings.

  The last layer of paper was removed. To the dog's view was exposed ahuge and gleaming silver cup, a cup with much chasing on its polishedsurface and with three handles and an ebony base. It was at leastdouble the size of the cup offered by the committee for "best collie."

  "See that?" questioned Titus, holding the trophy aloft for Robin'sinspection. "Forty-one dollars, that set me back. An' it'd a' been aheap more, only it was a left-over, an' had that one little gougeunder the aidge. Robin, if that cup don't tickle her, suthin'terrible, I'm a clay-eater! You-all won this yer vase, to-day, Robin;by bein' 'best collie.' Jes' keep a-rememberin' that. I ain't neverput nothin' over on her, b'fore. You-all knows that, Robbie. But--Ireckon it's wuth doin', this yer time. She----"

  He paused in his low-pitched confidence to the blinking, sympathisingdog. Two men had halted just in front of him. One of them was carryingan apparatus which movie-camp memories told Jeff was a camera.

  It chanced to be a moment when no less than two "Winners' Classes"were on in the showrings. Accordingly the ring-sides were banked deepwith onlookers, and this secluded section of the aisles was almostwholly stripped of spectators. That was why Jeff had ventured to bringforth the cup from its wrappings. The sight of the two keenlyinterested men set him to scowling in dire embarrassment.

  * * * * *

  The chairman of the dog-show committee was also one of the chiefstockholders of the Duneka _Chronicle_. Wherefore, the dictum had goneforth to the _Chronicle_ city-room that the show was to be played up,big, in both morning and evening editions. And the paper's bestdescriptive writer, one Graham, had been assigned to do some"human-interest stuff" about it, in addition to the sporting editor'sregulation account.

  Graham was a good reporter, and he had a genius for human-interestyarns. But of dogs he knew little, and of dog-shows he knew even less.Yet, gleaning such information on the subject as he could, he had setforth for the show this morning; taking along the paper's solephotographer.

  After pausing near the front entrance to accustom their ears to thefrightful din and to take a snapshot of the trophy-case, the twonewspaper men had wandered down the first aisle into which theirnon-enthusiastic feet had chanced to stray. There, suddenly, Grahamsaw one of the "human-interest bits" for which he was always hunting.

  Midway in an aisle labelled COLLIE SECTION sat a tired man, a typicalmountaineer, beside a huge collie. And to the civilly interested dogthe mountaineer was exhibiting pridefully a silver cup; larger thanany in the trophy-case. He was talking to the dog, too, in aconfidential whisper; evidently telling the collie what a splendidvictory he had scored and how proud of him his master was.

  Here was human-interest stuff, if ever Graham had seen it!

  * * * * *

  "Cup for best collie in the show?" asked Graham of the scowlinghill-billy.

  "Yep!" snapped Jeff Titus, defiantly.

  "Good boy!" exclaimed Graham, seeking by effusive geniality to breakdown the mountaineer's surly reserve. "He's sure one peach of a dog!What's his name? And what's yours?"

  "His name," said Jeff with perilous courtesy, "is Robin--Robin Adair.He b'longs to my wife, Miz Jeff Titus--up Keytesville-way. She's sick,to home. I'm showin' him fer her. Got any more questions to pester mewith, b'fore----"

  "Would you mind holding up the cup, a second?" wheedled Graham,scribbling with a chewed pencil on a doubled wad of copy paper. "So!Thanks!"

  Still defiantly, Jeff had held forward the cup for inspection, hisfree arm around the majestic Robin's shoulders. The camera clicked.Titus did not hear it, through the noise of a hundred barks and yelps.Besides, he was focusing his indignant attention on this slick-spokenopponent of his.

  "Wal?" he demanded truculently. "Anything more you-all wants o' me?He's _our_ dawg. An' he's good enough for _us_. If you-all don't likehim none----"

  "But I do!" effused Graham. "A great dog, Mr. Titus! And"--his eyerunning along the collie section--"he must be close to championshipstandard, to have beaten all of these beauties. I'd like to askyou----"

  "I ain't got nothin' more to say!" growled Jeff, half rising, and hisyellow eyetooth began to show under his upcurling lip. "An' if you-allis aimin' to start trouble 'bout this yer cup----"

  Graham was not aiming to start trouble. Not at all did he like the newexpression, nor the voice, of this sulking hill-billy he had sought topatronise. With a signal to the photographer he moved rapidly away,continuing his progress down the aisle.

  * * * * *

  Jeff glared after him. If the man were going to inform the committeethat Titus had bought a cup when he had not been able to win one, why,let him do it! Jeff wasn't going to run away. So he held his ground,feeling very wrathful, but somewhat scared. He restored the cup to itswrappings. It would be handier to carry it, that way, should he beejected from the show on account of his fraud.

  But no one ejected him. Except that people paused now and then,through the course of the day, to stare amusedly at poor Robin (and tostraighten their faces in comical haste as they encountered Jeff'sglower), no one molested Titus.

  At four in the afternoon Jeff's raw nerves could stand the strain nolonger. Untying Robin from the bench, he led him to the entrance ofthe hall. There he sought the superintendent of the show.

  "When c'n me an' my dawg git outen here an' traipse home?" he asked.

  "No dog is supposed to leave the building before ten o'clock to-night,when the show ends," replied the superintendent, adding with a crypticglance at Robin: "But I don't think I need hold your
entry to thoserules. Go when you like."

  The cup under his arm and Robin at his heels, Jeff departed. He hadcome to town on mule-back, the dog running alongside. Even at the bestpace he could scarce hope to get home very much before midnight. Hehad come to Duneka on the preceding day and had planned to stay untilnext morning. But, already, his imagination was afire with the thoughtof bursting in on Eve that very night, with the glittering trophy. Sohe bent his steps towards the stable where he housed his mule.

  * * * * *

  Across the fair-grounds, from the cityward gate, a bevy of bareleggednewsboys was scampering, with armfuls of newspapers--copies of the_Chronicle's_ first afternoon edition. One of them ran past Jeff.

  Jeff's keen mountaineer eyes chanced on a dark blotch near the bottomof the swaying sheet's first page. With an unbelieving gasp, hestopped short in his tracks and bawled to the fleeing newsboy to comeback.

  The boy returned, holding out the paper. Jeff snatched it from him,riveting his incredulous gaze upon that dark blotch on the front page.The blotch, at close range, resolved itself into a two-column cut--apicture of Robin, lying majestically at full length in his bench, histrustful gaze fixed on the lank man who squatted beside him and whoheld aloft an ornate silver cup!

  Above the cut ran the caption:

  "A PRIZE-WINNER AND HIS PRIZE."

  Beneath the picture were the lines:

  "_Mrs. Jeff Titus' Robin Adair; Winner of cup for Best Collie inShow._"

  Doubled, in single-column space under this, was one of the two-stick"human-interest" stories with which Graham was wont to strew the_Chronicle's_ pages. Jeff's fascinated eyes tore themselves from thepicture and caught a glimpse of his own name midway of thisexplanatory yarn. He read the sentence containing the name, then thenext line or so. Slowly and painfully he spelled out:

  Mr. Titus exhibited the dog for his wife, who is ill at their Keytesville home. With characteristic mountaineer modesty, Mr. Titus refused to sound his splendid exhibit's praises. When congratulated by throngs of admirers who paid homage to the peerless Robin Adair, Mr. Titus' sole comment on Robin's sensational victory was:

  "He's good enough for us!"

  Robin Adair was good enough for the judges, too, and good enough to win over one of the finest aggregations of high-bred collies ever shown in this part of the South.

  The brief story switched back to the human-interest note--to the man'sevident rapture in the triumph of his sick wife's pet, and his shypride in the magnificent cup. But Jeff read no more just then.

  Whirling on the impatiently waiting newsboy, he demanded thickly:

  "Gimme all them newspapers you're totin'! An' then scuttle off an'fetch me a dozen more! Scat!"

  Again he stared in idiotic bliss at the smudged two-column cut. Whatdid it matter to Jeff Titus that the picture and its erroneous captionwere to be "lifted out" of the next edition, and that Graham was toincur the sharpest call-down of his career, for the break he had made?

  Not three copies of the _Chronicle_ a week made their way toKeytesville. And, even should the next day's full account of thedog-show reach the Titus region, no mountaineer in the State wouldpossess the technical show-lore to decipher the cryptic "summary ofwins" and thus learn of Robin's defeat.

  No: in the mountains, the printed word was accepted as gospel fact--bythose who had education to read it. And its pictures were accepted assuch by those who had not bothered to master the effete arts ofreading and writing. Jeff was going to take home enough papers to goaround the whole sparse neighbourhood, in addition to those which wereto be mailed to Eve's people at Louisville and to any other distantkin or friends of hers. Not in the very least did Jeff Titusunderstand the meaning of this newspaper tribute. Nor did he botherhis overwrought brain about it. He had the required "good news" forEve. He had printed and pictured proofs thereof. If this didn't helpalong her tardy cure, by leaps and bounds--

  "I ain't never lied to her yet, Robin!" he informed the prize-winneras they ambled homeward at dusk over the purpling miles of hillytrail. "Nor yet I don't aim to, now. We'll walk in on her, with thecup. An' when she asks, all pleased an' tickled-like, 'Why, whateveris this yer fer?' we'll jest stick a copy of the noospaper up in frontof her. I'm bettin' the R'cordin' Angel is due to strain his pore earstill they ache him, if he 'lots on ketchin' _me_ tellin' a lie to thatGawd-blessed gal!"