CHAPTER VIII
THE GOLD HAT
The Place was in the North Jersey hinterland, backed by miles of hilland forest, facing the lake that divided it from the village and therailroad and the other new-made smears which had been daubed uponMother Nature's smiling face in the holy name of Civilization. Thelonely situation of The Place made Lad's self-appointed guardianshipof its acres no sinecure at all. The dread of his name spreadfar--carried by hobo and by less harmless intruder.
Ten miles to northward of The Place, among the mountains of this sameNorth Jersey hinterland, a man named Glure had bought a rambling oldwilderness farm. By dint of much money, more zeal and most dearth oftaste, he had caused the wilderness to blossom like the FifthProposition of Euclid. He had turned bosky wildwood into chastepicnic-grove plaisaunces, lush meadows into sunken gardens, a roomycolonial farmstead into something between a feudal castle and aroadhouse. And, looking on his work, he had seen that it was good.
This Beautifier of the Wilderness was a financial giantlet, who hadlately chosen to amuse himself, after work-hours, by what he called"farming." Hence the purchase and renovation of the five hundred-acretract, the building of model farms, the acquisition of pricelesslivestock, 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.
Having established himself in the region, the Wall Street Farmerundertook most earnestly to reproduce the story-book glories of thelife supposedly led by mid-Victorian country gentlemen. Not only inrespect to keeping open-house and in alternately patronizing andbullying the peasantry, but in filling his gun-room shelves with cupsand other trophies won by his livestock.
To his "open house" few of the neighboring families came. The localpeasantry--Jersey mountaineers of Revolutionary stock, who had not thefaintest idea they were "peasantry" and who, indeed, had never heardof the word--alternately grinned and swore at the Wall Street Farmer'streatment of them, and mulcted him of huge sums for small services.But Glure's keenest disappointment--a disappointment that creptgradually up toward the monomania point--was the annoyingly continualemptiness of his trophy-shelves.
When, for instance, he sent to the Paterson Livestock Show a score ofhis pricelessly imported merino sheep, under his more pricelesslyimported Scotch shepherd, Mr. McGillicuddy--the sheep came amblingback to Glure Towers Farm bearing no worthier guerdon than a singlethird-prize yellow silk rosette and a "Commended" ribbon. First andsecond prizes, as well as the challenge cup had gone to flocks ownedby vastly inferior folk--small farmers who had no money wherewith toimport the pick of the Scottish moors--farmers who had bred anddeveloped their own sheep, with no better aid than personal care andpersonal judgment.
At the Hohokus Fair, too, the Country Gentleman's imported Holsteinbull, Tenebris, had had to content himself with a measly red rosettein token of second prize, while the silver cup went to a bull owned byan elderly North Jerseyman of low manners, who had bred his own entryand had bred the latter's ancestors for forty years back.
It was discouraging, it was mystifying. There actually seemed to be avulgar conspiracy among the down-at-heel rural judges--a conspiracy toboost second-rate stock and to turn a blind eye to the virtues ofoverpriced transatlantic importations.
It was the same in the poultry shows and in hog exhibits. It was thesame at the County Fair horse-trots. At one of these trots the WallStreet Farmer, in person, drove his $9000 English colt. And a rangyHackensack gelding won all three heats. In none of the three didGlure's colt get within hailing distance of the wire before at leasttwo other trotters had clattered under it.
(Glure's English head-groom was called on the carpet to explain why acolt that could do a neat 2.13 in training was beaten out in a 2.17trot. The groom lost his temper and his place. For he grunted, inreply, "The colt was all there. It was the driving did it.")
The gun-room's glassed shelves in time were gay with ribbon. But onlytwo of the three primary colors were represented there--blue beingconspicuously absent. As for cups--the burglar who should break intoGlure Towers in search of such booty would find himself the worse offby a wageless night's work.
Then it was that the Wall Street Farmer had his Inspiration. Whichbrings us by easy degrees to the Hampton Dog Show.
Even as the Fiery Cross among the Highland crags once flashed signalof War, so, when the World War swirl sucked nation after nation intoits 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 theirfighting on the hither side of the gray seas. The country bristledwith a thousand money-getting functions of a thousand different kinds;with one objective--the Red Cross.
So it happened at last that North Jersey was posted, on state road andbyway, with flaring placards announcing a Mammoth Outdoor SpecialtyDog show, to be held under the auspices of the Hampton Branch of theAmerican National Red Cross, on Labor Day.
Mr. Hamilcar Q. Glure, the announcement continued, had kindly donatedthe use of his beautiful grounds for the Event, and had subscribedthree hundred dollars towards its running expenses and prizes.
Not only were the usual dog classes to be judged, but an addedinterest was to be supplied by the awarding of no less than fifteenSpecialty Trophies.
Mr. Glure, having offered his grounds and the initial three hundreddollars, graciously turned over the details of the Show to acommittee, whose duty it was to suggest popular Specialties and tosolicit money for the cups.
Thus, one morning, an official letter was received at The Place,asking the Master to enter all his available dogs for the Show--at onedollar apiece for each class--and to contribute, if he should sodesire, the sum of fifteen dollars, besides, for the purchase of aSpecialty Cup.
The Mistress was far more excited over the coming event than was theMaster. And it was she who suggested the nature of the Specialty forwhich the fifteen-dollar cup should be offered.
The next outgoing mail bore the Master's check for a cup. "To beawarded to the oldest and best-cared-for dog, of any breed, in theShow."
It was like the Mistress to think of that, and to reward the dog-ownerwhose pet's old age had been made happiest. Hers was destined to bethe most popular Specialty of the entire Show.
The Master, at first, was disposed to refuse the invitation to takeany of his collies to Hampton. The dogs were, for the most part, outof coat. The weather was warm. At these amateur shows--as at too manyprofessional exhibits--there was always danger of some sick dogspreading epidemic. Moreover, the living-room trophy-shelf at ThePlace was already comfortably filled with cups; won at similarcontests. Then, too, the Master had somehow acquired a most causelessand cordial dislike for the Wall Street Farmer.
"I believe I'll send an extra ten dollars," he told the Mistress, "andsave the dogs a day of torment. What do you think?"
By way of answer, the Mistress sat down on the floor where Lad wassprawled, asleep. She ran her fingers through his forest of ruff. Thegreat dog's brush pounded drowsily against the floor at the lovedtouch; and he raised his head for further caress.
"Laddie's winter coat is coming in beautifully," she said at last. "Idon'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. If itwere a four-day show--if it were anything longer than a one-dayshow--he shouldn't go a step. But, you see, I'd be right there withhim all the time. And I'd take him into the ring myself, as I did atMadison Square Garden. And he won't be unhappy or lonely or--oranything. And I always love to have people see how splendid he is. Andthose Specialty Trophies are pretty, sometimes. So--so we'll do justwhatever you say about it."
Which, naturally, settled the matter, once and for all.
When a printed copy of the Specialty Lists arrived, a week later, theMistress and the Master scanned eagerly its pages.
There were cups offered for the best tri-color collie, for the bestmother-and-litter, for the collie with the finest under-and-o
utercoat, for the best collie exhibited by a woman, for the collie whoseget had won most prizes in other shows. At the very bottom of thesection, and in type six points larger than any other announcement onthe whole schedule, were the words:
"_Presented, by the Hon. Hugh Lester Maury of New York City--18-KARATGOLD SPECIALTY CUP, FOR COLLIES (conditions announced later)._"
"A gold cup!" sighed the Mistress, yielding to Delusions of Grandeur,"A _gold_ cup! I never heard of such a thing, at a dog show. And--andwon't it look perfectly gorgeous in the very center of our TrophyShelf, there--with the other cups radiating from it on each side?And----"
"Hold on!" laughed the Master, trying to mask his own thrill,man-fashion, by wetblanketing his wife's enthusiasm. "Hold on! Wehaven't got it, yet. I'll enter Lad for it, of course. But so willevery other collie-owner who reads that. Besides, even if Lad shouldwin it, we'd have to buy a microscope to see the thing. It willprobably be about half the size of a thimble. Gold cups cost goldmoney, you know. And I don't suppose this 'Hon. Hugh Lester Maury ofNew York City' is squandering more than ten or fifteen dollars at moston a country dog show. Even for the Red Cross. I suppose he's someWall Street chum that Glure has wheedled into giving a Specialty. He'sa novelty to me. I never heard of him before. Did you?"
"No," admitted the Mistress. "But I feel I'm beginning to lovehim. Oh, Laddie," she confided to the dog, "I'm going to give you abath in naphtha soap every day till then; and brush you, two hoursevery morning; and feed you on liver and----"
"'Conditions announced later,'" quoted the Master, studying thebig-type offer once more. "I wonder what that means. Of course, in aSpecialty Show, anything goes. But----"
"I don't care what the conditions are," interrupted the Mistress,refusing to be disheartened. "Lad can come up to them. Why, thereisn't a greater dog in America than Lad. And you know it."
"I know it," assented the pessimistic Master. "But will the Judge?You might tell him so."
"Lad will tell him," promised the Mistress. "Don't worry."
* * * * *
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 intothe still-more-advertised estate of Hamilcar Q. Glure, Wall StreetFarmer.
There, the sylvan stillness was shattered by barks in every key, fromPekingese falsetto to St. Bernard bass-thunder. An open stretch ofshaded sward--backed by a stable that looked more like a dissolutecathedral--had been given over to ten double rows of "benches," forthe anchorage of the Show's three hundred exhibits. Above the centralshow-ring a banner was strung between two tree tops. It bore a blazingred cross at either end. In its center was the legend:
"_WELCOME TO GLURE TOWERS!_"
The Wall Street Farmer, as I have hinted, was a man of much taste--ofa sort.
Lad had enjoyed the ten-mile spin through the cool morning air, in thetonneau of The Place's only car--albeit the course of baths andcombings of the past week had long since made him morbidly aware thata detested dog show was somewhere at hand. Now, even before the carentered the fearsome feudal gateway of Glure Towers, the collie's earsand nose told him the hour of ordeal was at hand.
His zest in the ride vanished. He looked reproachfully at the Mistressand tried to bury his head under her circling arm. Lad loatheddog shows; as does every dog of high-strung nerves and higherintelligence. The Mistress, after one experience, had refrainedfrom breaking his heart by taking him to those horrors known as"two-or-more-day Shows." But, as she herself took such childishdelight in the local one-day contests, she had schooled herself tobelieve Lad must enjoy them, too.
Lad, as a matter of fact, preferred these milder ordeals, merely as aman might prefer one day of jail or toothache to two or more days ofthe same misery. But--even as he knew many lesser things--he knew theadored Mistress and Master reveled in such atrocities as dog shows;and that he, for some reason, was part of his two gods' pleasure inthem. Therefore, he made the best of the nuisance. Which led hisowners to a certainty that he had grown to like it.
Parking the car, the Mistress and Master led the unhappy dog to theclerk's desk; received his number tag and card, and were shown whereto bench him. They made Lad as nearly comfortable as possible, on astraw-littered raised stall; between a supercilious Merle and afluffily disconsolate sable-and-white six-month puppy that howledceaselessly in an agony of fright.
The Master paused for a moment in his quest of water for Lad, andstared open-mouthed at the Merle.
"Good Lord!" he mumbled, touching the Mistress' arm and pointing tothe gray dog. "That's the most magnificent collie I ever set eyeson. It's farewell to poor old Laddie's hopes, if he is in any of thesame classes with that marvel. Say goodby, right now, to your hopes ofthe Gold Cup; and to 'Winners' in the regular collie division."
"I won't say goodby to it," refused the Mistress. "I won't doanything of the sort. Lad's every bit as beautiful as that dog. Everysingle bit."
"But not from the show-judge's view," said the Master. "This Merle's agem. 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 Clubcircuits. Yet, this is as perfect a dog as ever Grey Mist was. It's apleasure to see such an animal. Or," he corrected himself, "it wouldbe, if he wasn't pitted against dear old Lad. I'd rather be kickedthan take Lad to a show to be beaten. Not for my sake or even foryours. But for his. Lad will be sure to know. He knows everything.Laddie, old friend, I'm sorry. Dead-_sorry_."
He stooped down and patted Lad's satin head. Both Master and Mistresshad always carried their fondness for Lad to an extent that perhapswas absurd. Certainly absurd to the man or woman who has never ownedsuch a super-dog as Lad. As not one man or woman in a thousand has.
Together, the Mistress and the Master made their way along the colliesection, trying to be interested in the line of barking or yellingentries.
"Twenty-one collies in all," summed up the Master, as they reached theend. "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. TheMerle's our Waterloo. Lad is due for his first defeat. Well, it'll bea fair one. That's one comfort."
"It doesn't comfort _me_, in the very least," returned the Mistress,adding:
"Look! There is the trophy table. Let's go over. Perhaps the Gold Cupis there. If it isn't too precious to leave out in the open."
The Gold Cup was there. It was plainly--or, rather, flamingly--visible.Indeed, it smote the eye from afar. It made the surrounding arrayof pretty silver cups and engraved medals look tawdrily insignificant.Its presence had, already, drawn a goodly number of admirers--folkat whom the guardian village constable, behind the table, staredwith sour distrust.
The Gold Cup was a huge bowl of unchased metal, its softly glowingsurface marred only by the script words:
"_Maury Specialty Gold Cup. Awarded to----_"
There could be no shadow of doubt as to the genuineness of the claimthat the trophy was of eighteen-karat gold. Its value spoke foritself. The vessel was like a half melon in contour and was supportedby four severely plain claws. Its rim flared outward in a wide curve.
"It's--it's all the world like an inverted derby hat!" exclaimed theMistress, after one long dumb look at it. "And it's every bit as bigas a derby hat. Did you ever see anything so ugly--and so Croesusful?Why, it must have cost--it must have cost----"
"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."
"Handling it?" repeated The Mistress. "I'd as soon think of handlingthe National Debt!"
The Superintendent of the Show strolled up and greeted the Mistressand the Master. The latter scarce heard the neighborly greeting. Hewas scowling at the precious trophy as at a personal foe.
"I s
ee you've entered Lad for the Gold Cup," said the Superintendent."Sixteen collies, in all, are entered for it. The conditions forthe Gold Cup contest weren't printed till too late to mail them.So I'm handing out the slips this morning. Mr. Glure took chargeof their printing. They didn't get here from the job shop tillhalf an hour ago. And I don't mind telling you they're causing a lotof kicks. Here's one of the copies. Look it over, and see what Lad'sup against."
"Who's the Hon. Hugh Lester Maury, of New York?" suddenly demanded theMaster, rousing himself from his glum inspection of the Cup. "I meanthe man who donated that--that Gold Hat?"
"Gold Hat!" echoed the Superintendent, with a chuckle of joy. "GoldHat! Now you say so, I can't make it look like anything else. A derby,upside down, with four----"
"Who's Maury?" insisted the Master.
"He's the original Man of Mystery," returned the Superintendent,dropping his voice to exclude the constable. "I wanted to get in touchwith him about the delayed set of conditions. I looked him up. Thatis, I tried to. He is advertised in the premium list, as a NewYorker. You'll remember that, but his name isn't in the New York CityDirectory or in the New York City telephone book or in the suburbantelephone book. He can afford to give a sixteen hundred dollar-cup forcharity, but it seems he isn't important enough to get his name in anydirectory. Funny, isn't it? I asked Glure about him. That's all thegood it did me."
"You don't mean----?" began the Mistress, excitedly.
"I don't mean anything," the Superintendent hurried to forestallher. "I'm paid to take charge of this Show. It's no affair of mineif----"
"If Mr. Glure chooses to invent Hugh Lester Maury and make him give aGold Hat for a collie prize?" suggested the Mistress. "But----"
"I didn't say so," denied the superintendent. "And it's none of mybusiness, anyhow. Here's----"
"But why should Mr. Glure do such a thing?" asked the Mistress, inwonder. "I never heard of his shrinking coyly behind another name whenhe wanted to spend money. I don't understand why he----"
"Here is the conditions-list for the Maury Specialty Cup," interposedthe superintendent with extreme irrelevance, as he handed her a pinkslip of paper. "Glance over it."
The Mistress took the slip and read aloud for the benefit of theMaster who was still glowering at the Gold Hat:
"_Conditions of Contest for Hugh Lester Maury Gold Cup:_
"'_First.--No collie shall be eligible that has not already taken atleast one blue ribbon at a licensed American or British Kennel ClubShow._'"
"That single clause has barred out eleven of the sixteen entrants,"commented the Superintendent. "You see, most of the dogs at theselocal Shows are pets, and hardly any of them have been to MadisonSquare Garden or to any of the other A. K. C. shows. The few that havebeen to them seldom got a Blue."
"Lad did!" exclaimed the Mistress joyfully. "He took two Blues at theGarden last year; and then, you remember, it was so horrible for himthere we broke the rules and brought him home without waiting for----"
"I know," said the Superintendent, "but read the rest."
"'_Second_,'" read the Mistress. "'_Each contestant must have acertified five-generation pedigree, containing the names of at leastten champions._' Lad had twelve in his pedigree," she added, "and it'scertified."
"Two more entrants were killed out by _that_ clause," remarked theSuperintendent, "leaving only three out of the original sixteen. Nowgo ahead with the clause that puts poor old Lad and one other out ofthe running. I'm sorry."
"'_Third_,'" the Mistress read, her brows crinkling and her voicetrailing as she proceeded. "'_Each contestant must go successfullythrough the preliminary maneuvers prescribed by the KirkaldieAssociation, Inc., of Great Britain, for its Working SheepdogTrials._'--But," she protested, "Lad isn't a 'working' sheepdog! Why,this is some kind of a joke! I never heard of such a thing--even in aSpecialty Show."
"No," agreed the Superintendent, "nor anybody else. Naturally, Ladisn't a 'working' sheepdog. There probably haven't been three'working' sheepdogs born within a hundred miles of here, and it's amighty safe bet that no 'working' sheepdog has ever taken a 'Blue' atan A. K. C. Show. A 'working' dog is almost never a show dog. I knowof only one either here or in England; and he's a freak--a miracle. Somuch so, that he's famous all over the dog-world."
"Do you mean Champion Lochinvar III?" asked the Mistress. "The dog theDuke of Hereford used to own?"
"That's the dog. The only----"
"We read about him in the _Collie Folio_," said the Mistress. "Hispicture was there, too. He was sent to Scotland when he was a puppy,the _Folio_ said, and trained to herd sheep before ever he wasshown. His owner was trying to induce other collie-fanciers to maketheir dogs useful and not just Show-exhibits. Lochinvar is aninternational champion, too, isn't he?"
The Superintendent nodded.
"If the Duke of Hereford lived in New Jersey," pursued the Mistress,trying to talk down her keen chagrin over Lad's mishap, "Lochinvarmight have a chance to win a nice Gold Hat."
"He has," replied the superintendent. "He has every chance, and theonly chance."
"_Who_ has?" queried the puzzled Mistress.
"Champion Lochinvar III," was the answer. "Glure bought him bycable. Paid $7000 for him. That eclipses Untermeyer's record price of$6500 for old Squire of Tytton. The dog arrived last week. He'shere. A big Blue Merle. You ought to look him over. He's a wonder.He----"
"_Oh!_" exploded the Mistress. "You can't mean it. You _can't!_ Why,it's the most--the most hideously unsportsmanlike thing I ever heardof in my life! Do you mean to tell me Mr. Glure put up this sixteenhundred-dollar cup and then sent for the only dog that could fulfillthe Trophy's conditions? It's unbelievable!"
"It's Glure," tersely replied the Superintendent. "Which perhapscomes to the same thing."
"Yes!" spoke up the Master harshly, entering the talk for the firsttime, and tearing his disgusted attention from the Gold Hat. "Yes,it's Glure, and it's unbelievable! And it's worse than either ofthose, if anything can be. Don't you see the full rottenness of itall? Half the world is starving or sick or wounded. The other half isworking its fingers off to help the Red Cross make Europe a littleless like hell; and, when every cent counts in the work, this--thisWall Street Farmer spends sixteen hundred precious dollars to buyhimself a Gold Hat; and he does it under the auspices of the RedCross, in the holy name of charity. The unsportsmanlikeness of it isnothing to that. It's--it's an Unpardonable Sin, and I don't want toendorse it by staying here. Let's get Lad and go home."
"I wish to heaven we could!" flamed the Mistress, as angry as he. "I'ddo it in a minute if we were able to. I feel we're insulting loyal oldLad 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 shouldbe. You've told me, again and again, that no true sportsman will backout of a contest just because he finds he has no chance of winningit."
"She's right," chimed in the Superintendent. "You've entered the dogfor the contest, and by all the rules he'll have to stay in it. Laddoesn't know the first thing about 'working.' Neither does theonly other local entrant that the first two rules have left inthe competition. And Lochinvar is perfect at every detail ofsheep-work. Lad and the other can't do anything but swell hisvictory. It's rank bad luck, but----"
"All right! All right!" growled the Master. "We'll go through withit. Does anyone know the terms of a 'Kirkaldie Association'sPreliminaries,' for 'Working Sheepdog Trials?' My own early educationwas neglected."
"Glure's education wasn't," said the Superintendent. "He has the fullset of rules in his brand new Sportsman Library. That's, no doubt,where he got the idea. I went to him for them this morning, and he letme copy the laws governing the preliminaries. They're absurdly simplefor a 'working' dog and absurdly impossible for a non-worker. Here,I'll read them over to you."
He fished out a folded sheet of paper and read aloud a few lines ofpencil-scribblings:
"Four posts shall be set up, at ninety yards apart, at the corners ofa square enclosu
re. A fifth post shall be set in the center. At thisfifth post the owner or handler of the contestant shall stand with hisdog. Nor shall such owner or handler move more than three feet fromthe post until his dog shall have completed the trial.
"Guided only by voice and by signs, the dog shall go alone from thecenter-post to the post numbered '1.' He shall go thence, in the ordernamed, to Posts 2, 3 and 4, without returning to within fifteen feetof the central post until he shall have reached Post 4.
"Speed and form shall count as seventy points in these evolutions.Thirty points shall be added to the score of the dog or dogswhich shall make the prescribed tour of the posts directed whollyby signs and without the guidance of voice."
"There," finished the superintendent, "you see it is as simple as akindergarten game. But a child who had never been taught could notplay Puss-in-the-Corner.' I was talking to the English trainer thatGlure bought along with the dog. The trainer tells me Lochinvar can gothrough those maneuvers and a hundred harder ones without a word beingspoken. He works entirely by gestures. He watches the trainer'shand. 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 adelight to watch him."
"The delight is all his," grumbled the Master. "Poor, poor Lad! He'llget 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 upGlure's flock of sheep--when he'd never seen a sheep before. That wasancestral instinct. A throwback. But ancestral instinct won't teachhim to go to Post 1 and 2 and 3 and 4. He----"
"Hello, people!" boomed a jarringly cordial voice. "Welcome to theTowers!"
Bearing down upon the trio was a large person, round and yellow offace and clad elaborately in a morning costume that suggested astud-groom with ministerial tendencies. He was dressed for theOccasion. Mr. Glure was always dressed for the Occasion.
"Hello, people!" repeated the Wall Street Farmer, alternatelypump-handling the totally unresponsive Mistress and Master. "I seeyou've been admiring the Maury Trophy. Magnificent, eh? Oh, Maury's aprince, I tell you! A prince! A bit eccentric, perhaps--as you'll haveguessed by the conditions he's put up for the cup. But a prince. Aprince! We think everything of him on the Street. Have you seen my newdog? Oh, you must go and take a look at Lochinvar! I'm entering himfor the Maury Trophy, you know."
"Yes," assented the Master dully, as Mr. Glure paused to breathe. "Iknow."
He left his exultant host with some abruptness, and piloted theMistress back to the Collie Section. There they came upon a scene ofdire wrath. Disgruntled owners were loudly denouncing the Mauryconditions-list, and they redoubled their plaint at sight of the twonew victims of the trick.
Folk who had bathed and brushed and burnished their pets for days, ineager anticipation of a neighborhood contest, gargled in positivehatred at the glorious Merle. They read the pink slips over and overwith more rage at each perusal.
One pretty girl had sat down on the edge of a bench, gathering herbeloved gold-and-white collie's head in her lap, and was cryingunashamed. The Master glanced at her. Then he swore softly, and set towork helping the Mistress in the task of fluffing Lad's glossy coat toa final soft shagginess.
Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say; but Lad realized morekeenly than could a human that both his gods were wretchedly unhappy,and his great heart yearned pathetically to comfort them.
"There's one consolation," said a woman at work on a dog in theopposite bench, "Lochinvar's not entered for anything except the MauryCup. The clerk told me so."
"Little good that will do any of us!" retorted her bench-neighbor. "Inan all-specialty show, the winner of the Maury Trophy will go up forthe 'Winners Class,' and that means Lochinvar will get the cup forthe 'Best Collie,' as well as the Maury Cup and probably the cup for'Best Dog of any Breed,' too. And----"
"The Maury Cup is the first collie event on the programme," lamentedthe other. "It's slated to be called before even the Puppy and theNovice classes. Mr. Glure has----"
"Contestants for the Maury Trophy--all out!" bawled an attendant atthe end of the section.
The Master unclasped the chain from Lad's collar, snapped the lightshow-ring leash in its place and handed the leash to the Mistress.
"Unless you'd rather have me take him in?" he whispered. "I hate tothink of your handling a loser."
"I'd rather take Lad to defeat than any other dog to--a Gold Hat," sheanswered, sturdily. "Come along, Laddie!"
The Maury contest, naturally, could not be decided in the regularshow-ring. Mr. Glure had thoughtfully set aside a quadrangle ofgreensward for the Event--a quadrangle bounded by four white andnumbered posts, and bearing a larger white post in its center.
A throng of people was already banked deep on all four sides of theenclosure when the Mistress arrived. The collie judge standing by thecentral post declaimed loudly the conditions of the contest. Then heasked for the first entrant.
This courtier of failure chanced to be the only other local dogbesides Lad that had survived the first two clauses of the conditions.He chanced also to be the dog over which the pretty girl had beencrying.
The girl's eyes were still red through a haze of powder as she led herslender little gold-and-snow collie into the ring. She had put on afilmy white muslin dress with gold ribbons that morning with the ideaof matching her dog's coloring. She looked very sweet and dainty--andheartsore.
At the central post she glanced up hopelessly at the judge who stoodbeside her. The judge indicated Post No. 1 with a nod. The girlblinked at the distant post, then at her collie, after which shepointed to the post.
"Run on over there, Mac!" she pleaded. "That's a good boy!"
The little collie wagged his tail, peered expectantly at her, andbarked. But he did not stir. He had not the faintest idea what shewanted him to do, although he would have been glad to do it.Wherefore, the bark.
Presently (after several more fruitless entreaties which reduced thedog 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.
And now, at the judge's command, the Mistress led Lad into thequadrangle and up to the central post. She was very pale, but herthoroughbred nerves were rocklike in their steadiness. She, like Lad,was of the breed that goes down fighting. Lad walked majesticallybeside her, his eyes dark with sorrow over his goddess' unhappiness,which he could not at all understand and which he so longed tolighten. Hitherto, at dog shows, Lad had been the only representativeof The Place to grieve.
He thrust his nose lovingly into the Mistress' hand, as he moved alongwith her to the post; and he whined, under his breath.
Ranging up beside the judge, the Mistress took off Lad's leash andcollar. Stroking the dog's upraised head, she pointed to the No. 1Post.
"Over there," she bade him.
Lad looked in momentary doubt at her, and then at the post. He did notsee the connection, nor know what he was expected to do. So, again helooked at the sorrowing face bent over him.
"Lad!" said the Mistress gently, pointing once more to the Post. "Go!"
Now, there was not one dog at The Place that had not known frompuppy-hood the meaning of the word "Go!" coupled with the pointing ofa finger. Fingers had pointed, hundreds of times, to kennels or to theopen doorways or to canoe-bottoms or to car tonneaus or to whatsoeverspot the dog in question was desired to betake himself. And the word"Go!" had always accompanied the motion.
Lad still did not see why he was to go where the steady fingerindicated. There was nothing of interest over there; no one to attackat command. But he went.
He walked for perhaps fifty feet; then he turned and looked back.
"Go on!" called the voice that was his loved Law.
And he went on. Unquestionably, as uncomprehendingly, he went, becausethe Mistress told him to! Since she had brought him out before thisannoying concourse of humans to show off his obedience all he could dowas to obey
. The knowledge of her mysterious sadness made him the moreanxious to please her.
So on he went. Presently, as his progress brought him alongside awhite post, he heard the Mistress call again. He wheeled and startedtoward her at a run. Then he halted again, almost in mid-air.
For her hand was up in front of her, palm forward, in a gesture thathad meant "Stop!" from the time he had been wont to run into the housewith muddy feet, as a puppy.
Lad stood, uncertain. And now the Mistress was pointing another wayand calling:
"Go on! Lad! Go on!"
Confused, the dog started in the new direction. He went slowly. Onceor twice he stopped and looked back in perplexity at her; but, asoften, came the steady-voiced order:
"Go on! Lad! Go _on!_"
On plodded Lad. Vaguely, he was beginning to hate this new game playedwithout known rules and in the presence of a crowd. Lad abominated acrowd.
But it was the Mistress' bidding, and in her dear voice his quickhearing could read what no human could read--a hard-fought longing tocry. It thrilled the big dog, this subtle note of grief. And all hecould do to ease her sorrow, apparently, was to obey this queer newwhim of hers as best he might.
He had continued his unwilling march as far as another post when thewelcome word of recall came--the recall that would bring him closeagain to his sorrowing deity. With a bound he started back to her.
But, for the second time, came that palm-forward gesture and the cryof "Stop! Go _back!_"
Lad paused reluctantly and stood panting. This thing was getting onhis fine-strung nerves. And nervousness ever made him pant.
The Mistress pointed in still another direction, and she was callingalmost beseechingly:
"Go on, Lad! Go _on!_"
Her pointing hand waved him ahead and, as before, he followed itsguidance. Walking heavily, his brain more and more befogged, Ladobeyed. This time he did not stop to look to her for instructions.From the new vehemence of the Mistress' gesture she had apparentlybeen ordering him off the field in disgrace, as he had seen puppiesordered from the house. Head and tail down, he went.
But, as he passed by the third of those silly posts, she recalledhim. Gleeful to know he was no longer in disgrace he galloped towardthe Mistress; only to be halted again by that sharp gesture andsharper command before he had covered a fifth of the distance from thepost to herself.
The Mistress was actually pointing again--more urgently than ever--andin still another direction. Now her voice had in it a quiver thateven the humans could detect; a quiver that made its sweetness all butsharp.
"Go on, Lad! Go _on!_"
Utterly bewildered at his usually moodless Mistress' crazy mood andspurred by the sharp reprimand in her voice Lad moved away at acrestfallen walk. Four times he stopped and looked back at her, inpiteous appeal, asking forgiveness of the unknown fault for which shewas ordering him away; but always he was met by the same fierce "Go_on!_"
And he went.
Of a sudden, from along the tight-crowded edges of the quadrangle,went up a prodigious handclapping punctuated by such foolish andear-grating yells as "Good _boy!_" "_Good_ old Laddie!" "He _did_ it!"
And through the looser volume of sound came the Mistress' call of:
"Laddie! Here, _Lad!_"
In doubt, Lad turned to face her. Hesitatingly he went toward herexpecting at every step that hateful command of "Go _back!_"
But she did not send him back. Instead, she was running forward tomeet him. And out of her face the sorrow--but not the desire tocry--had been swept away by a tremulous smile.
Down on her knees beside Lad the Mistress flung herself, and gatheredhis head in her arms and told him what a splendid, dear dog he was andhow proud she was of him.
All Lad had done was to obey orders, as any dog of his brain and heartand home training might have obeyed them. Yet, for some unexplainedreason, he had made the Mistress wildly happy. And that was enough forLad.
Forgetful of the crowd, he licked at her caressing hands in puppylikeecstasy; then he rolled in front of her; growling ferociously andcatching one of her little feet in his mighty jaws, as though tocrush it. This foot-seizing game was Lad's favorite romp with theMistress. With no one else would he condescend to play it, and theterrible white teeth never exerted the pressure of a tenth of an ounceon the slipper they gripped.
"Laddie!" the Mistress was whispering to him, "_Laddie!_ You did it,old friend. You did it terribly badly I suppose, and of course we'lllose. But we'll 'lose right.' We've made the contest. You _did_ it!"
And now a lot of noisy and bothersome humans had invaded thequadrangle and wanted to paw him and pat him and praise him. WhereforeLad at once got to his feet and stood aloofly disdainful of everythingand everybody. He detested pawing; and, indeed, any outsider'shandling.
Through the congratulating knot of folk the Wall Street Farmer elbowedhis way to the Mistress.
"Well, well!" he boomed. "I must compliment you on Lad! A reallyintelligent dog. I was surprised. I didn't think any dog could makethe round unless he'd been trained to it. Quite a dog! But, ofcourse, you had to call to him a good many times. And you weresignaling pretty steadily every second. Those things count heavilyagainst you, you know. In fact, they goose-egg your chances if anotherentrant can go the round without so much coaching. Now my dogLochinvar never needs the voice at all and he needs only one slightgesture for each manoeuver. Still, Lad did very nicely. He--why doesthe sulky brute pull away when I try to pat him?"
"Perhaps," ventured the Mistress, "perhaps he didn't catch your name."
Then she and the Master led Lad back to his bench where the localcontingent made much of him, and where--after the manner of ahigh-bred dog at a Show--he drank much water and would eat nothing.
When the Mistress went again to the quadrangle, the crowd was bankedthicker than ever, for Lochinvar III was about to compete for theMaury Trophy.
The Wall Street Farmer and the English trainer had delayed the Eventfor several minutes while they went through a strenuous dispute. Asthe Mistress came up she heard Glure end the argument by booming:
"I tell you that's all rot. Why shouldn't he 'work' for me just aswell as he'd 'work' for you? I'm his Master, ain't I?"
"No, sir," replied the trainer, glumly. "Only his _owner_."
"I've had him a whole week," declared the Wall Street Farmer, "andI've put him through those rounds a dozen times. He knows me and hegoes through it all like clockwork for me. Here! Give me his leash!"
He snatched the leather cord from the protesting trainer and, with ayank at it, started with Lochinvar toward the central post. Thearistocratic Merle resented the uncalled-for tug by a flash ofteeth. Then he thought better of the matter, swallowed his resentmentand paced along beside his visibly proud owner.
A murmur of admiration went through the crowd at sight of Lochinvar ashe moved forward. The dog was a joy to look on. Such a dog as onesees perhaps thrice in a lifetime. Such a dog for perfect beauty, aswere Southport Sample, Grey Mist, Howgill Rival, Sunnybank Goldsmithor Squire of Tytton. A dog, for looks, that was the despair of allcompeting dogdom.
Proudly perfect in carriage, in mist-gray coat, in a hundredpoints--from the noble pale-eyed head to the long massybrush--Lochinvar III made people catch their breath and stare. Eventhe Mistress' heart went out--though with a tinge of shame fordisloyalty to Lad--at his beauty.
Arrived at the central post, the Wall Street Farmer unsnapped theleash. Then, one hand on the Merle's head and the other holding ahalf-smoked cigar between two pudgy fingers, he smiled upon the tenseonlookers.
This was his Moment. This was the supreme moment which had cost himnearly ten thousand dollars in all. He was due, at last, to win atrophy that would be the talk of all the sporting universe. Thesecountry-folk who had won lesser prizes from under his very nose--howthey would stare, after this, at his gun-room treasures!
"Ready, Mr. Glure?" asked the Judge.
"All ready!" graciously returned the Wall Street Farmer.
> Taking a pull at his thick cigar, and replacing it between the firsttwo fingers of his right hand, he pointed majestically with the samehand to the first post.
No word of command was given; yet Lochinvar moved off at a sweepingrun directly in the line laid out by his owner's gesture.
As the Merle came alongside the post the Wall Street Farmer snappedhis fingers. Instantly Lochinvar dropped to a halt and stood moveless,looking back for the next gesture.
This "next gesture" was wholly impromptu. In snapping his fingers theWall Street Farmer had not taken sufficient account of the cigar stubhe held. The snapping motion had brought the fire-end of the stubdirectly between his first and second fingers, close to the palm. Thered coal bit deep into those two tenderest spots of all the hand.
With a reverberating snort the Wall Street Farmer dropped thecigar-butt and shook his anguished hand rapidly up and down, in thefirst sting of pain. The loose fingers slapped together like thestrands of an obese cat-of-nine-tails.
And this was the gesture which Lochinvar beheld, as he turned to catchthe signal for his next move.
Now, the frantic St. Vitus shaking of the hand and arm, accompanied bya clumsy step-dance and a mouthful of rich oaths, forms no signalknown to the very cleverest of "working" collies. Neither does theinserting of two burned fingers into the signaler's mouth--which wasthe second motion the Merle noted.
Ignorant as to the meaning of either of these unique signals the dogstood, puzzled. The Wall Street Farmer recovered at once from his fitof babyish emotion, and motioned his dog to go on to the next post.
The Merle did not move. Here, at last, was a signal he understoodperfectly well. Yet, after the manner of the best-taught "working"dogs, he had been most rigidly trained from earliest days to finishthe carrying out of one order before giving heed to another.
He had received the signal to go in one direction. He had obeyed.He had then received the familiar signal to halt and to awaitinstructions. Again he had obeyed. Next, he had received a wildlyemphatic series of signals whose meaning he could not read. A longcourse of training told him he must wait to have these gesturesexplained to him before undertaking to obey the simple signal that hadfollowed.
This, in his training kennel, had been the rule. When a pupil did notunderstand an order he must stay where he was until he could be madeto understand. He must not dash away to carry out a later order thatmight perhaps be intended for some other pupil.
Wherefore, the Merle stood stock still. The Wall Street Farmerrepeated the gesture of pointing toward the next post. Inquiringly,Lochinvar watched him. The Wall Street Farmer made the gesture athird time--to no purpose other than to deepen the dog's look ofinquiry. Lochinvar was abiding, steadfastly, by his hard-learnedlessons of the Scottish moorland days.
Someone in the crowd tittered. Someone else sang out delightedly:
"Lad wins!"
The Wall Street Farmer heard. And he proceeded to mislay hiseasily-losable self control. Again, these inferior country folkseemed about to wrest from him a prize he had deemed all his own, andto rejoice in the prospect.
"You mongrel cur!" he bellowed. "Get along there!"
This diction meant nothing to Lochinvar, except that his owner'stemper was gone--and with it his scanty authority.
Glure saw red--or he came as near to seeing it as can anyone outside anovel. He made a plunge across the quadrangle, seized the beautifulMerle by the scruff of the neck and kicked him.
Now, here was something the dog could understand with entireease. This loud-mouthed vulgarian giant, whom he had disliked from thefirst, was daring to lay violent hands on him--on Champion LochinvarIII, the dog-aristocrat that had always been handled with deferenceand whose ugly temper had never been trained out of him.
As a growl of hot resentment went up from the onlookers, a far moremurderously resentful growl went up from the depths of Lochinvar'sfurry throat.
In a flash, the Merle had wrenched free from his owner's neck-grip.And, in practically the same moment, his curved eye-teeth wereburying themselves deep in the calf of the Wall Street Farmer'sleg.
Then the trainer and the judge seized on the snarlingly flounderingpair. What the outraged trainer said, as he ran up, would have broughta blush to the cheek of a waterside bartender. What the judge said (ina tone of no regret, whatever) was:
"Mr. Glure, you have forfeited the match by moving more than threefeet from the central post. But your dog had already lost it byrefusing to 'work' at your command. Lad wins the Maury Trophy."
* * * * *
So it was that the Gold Hat, as well as the modest little silver "BestCollie" cup, went to The Place that night. Setting the goldenmonstrosity on the trophy shelf, the Master surveyed it for a moment;then said:
"That Gold Hat is even bigger than it looks. It is big enough to holda thousand yards of surgical dressings; and gallons of medicine andbroth, besides. And that's what it is going to hold. To-morrow I'llsend it to Vanderslice, at the Red Cross Headquarters."
"Good!" applauded the Mistress. "Oh, _good!_ send it in Lad's name."
"I shall. I'll tell Vanderslice how it was won; and I'll ask him tohave it melted down to buy hospital supplies. If that doesn't take offits curse of unsportsmanliness, nothing will. I'll get you somethingto take its place, as a trophy."
But there was no need to redeem that promise. A week later, fromHeadquarters, came a tiny scarlet enamel cross, whose silver back borethe inscription:
"_To SUNNYBANK LAD; in memory of a generous gift to Humanity._"
"Its face-value is probably fifty cents, Lad, dear," commented theMistress, as she strung the bit of scarlet on the dog's shaggythroat. "But its heart value is at least a billion dollars. Besides--youcan wear it. And nobody, outside a nightmare, could possiblyhave worn kind, good Mr. Hugh Lester Maury's Gold Hat. I mustwrite to Mr. Glure and tell him all about it. How tickled he'll be!Won't he, Laddie?"
Lad: A Dog Page 8
