unruffled, “there’s nothing at all the matter with him. Didn’t anybody
ever tell you how unsportsmanlike it is to argue a judge’s decision in
the ring? It’s against the A.K.C. rules, too. I’m always glad, later, to
explain my rulings to any one who asks me civilly. Since you want to
know what’s the matter with your dog, I’ll tell you. He has spaniel
ears. Fault number one. He is cow-hocked. Fault number two. He is
apple-domed, and he’s cheeky and he has a snipe-nose. Faults three, four
and five. He’s long-bodied and swaybacked and over-shot and his
undercoat is as thin as your own sportsmanship. He carries his tail high
over his back, too. And his outer coat is almost curly. Those are all
the faults I can see about him just now. He’ll never win anything in any
A.K.C. show. It’s only fair to tell you that; to save you further money
and to save you from another such dirty breach of sportsmanship. That’s
all.”
The Master, covertly petting Bruce and telling him in a whisper what a
grand dog he was, waited at an end of the ring for the next class—"the
novice"—to be called.
Here the competition was somewhat keener. Yet the result was the same.
And Bruce found himself with another dark blue ribbon in token of his
second victory.
Then, when the winning dogs of every class were brought into the ring
for "Winners"—to decide on the best male collie,—Bruce received the
winner’s rosette, and found himself advanced three points on his
fifteen-point journey toward the championship.
When the collie judging was over and the Master sat on the bench edge,
petting his victorious dog, Angus McGilead strolled over to where the
winner lay and stood staring down on him.
“How old?” he asked, curtly.
“Twelve months, next Tuesday,” returned the Master.
“If he keeps on,” pursued the dryly rasping voice, “you can say you own
the greatest collie Angus McGilead has seen in ten years. It’s a
privilege to look at such a dog. A privilege. I’m not speaking, mind
you, as the collie judge of this show, but as a man who has spent some
fifty-odd years in studying the breed. I’ve not seen his like in many a
day. I’ll keep my eye on him.”
And he was as good as his word. At every succeeding show to which the
Master took Bruce, he was certain to run into McGilead, there as a
spectator, standing with head on one side, brooding over the physical
perfections of Bruce. Always the little judge was chary of his
conversation with the Master. But always, he gazed upon Bruce as might
an inspired artist on some still more inspired painting.
McGilead had been right in his prophecy as to the collie’s future. Not
only did Bruce “keep on,” but the passing months added new wealth and
lustre to his huge coat and new grace and shapeliness to his massive
body, and a clearer and cleaner set of lines to his classic head.
Three more shows, two of them three-point exhibitions and one a
single-pointer, brought him seven more points toward the championship.
Then, on the day of the “Collie Club of the Union’s” annual show, came
the crowning triumph.
Thirty-two dogs were on hand, precisely the number, under the new
rulings, to make it a five-point show. And Angus McGilead was the judge.
When McGilead gave Bruce the winner’s rosette, which marked also his
winning of the championship, the pale and shrewd old eyes were misted
ever so little, and the hard and thin mouth was set like a gash.
It was as proud a moment in the little judge’s life as in the Master’s.
America once more had a champion collie—a young dog at that—at which
McGilead could point with inordinate pride, when collie-folk fell to
bewailing the decadence of the breed in the Linlithgow man’s adopted
country.
“I gave him his first winners!” he bragged that night to a coterie of
fellow countrymen, in a rare fit of expansiveness. “I gave him his first
winners, first time ever he was showed. I said to myself when he swung
into the ring that day—under twelve months old, mind you—I said: ‘Angus,
lad, yon’s a _dog_!’ I said. ‘Watch him, Angus!’ I said. ‘For he’s going
far, is yon tike,’ I said. And what’s he done? Won his championship in
five shows. In less’n a year. And I’m the man who gave him the ‘winners’
that got him his championship. Watch him! He’s due to last for years
longer and to clean up wherever he goes. Remember I said so, when you
see him going through every bunch he’s shown against. He’s the grandest
dog in America to-day, is Brucie.”
Again was the Scotchman’s forecast justified. At such few shows, during
the next six years, as the Master found time to take him to, Bruce won
prize after prize. Age did not seem to lessen his physical perfection.
And the years added to the regal dignity that shone about him like an
almost visible atmosphere.
Watching from the ring-side, or presiding in the ring Angus McGilead
thrilled to the dog’s every victory as to the triumph of some loved
friend. There was an odd bond between the great dog and the little
judge. Except for the Mistress and the Master, the collie felt scant
interest in humanity at large. A one-man dog, he received the pettings
of outsiders and the handling of judges with lofty coldness.
But, at sight of McGilead, the plumed tail was at once awag. The deepset
eyes would soften and brighten, and the long nose would wrinkle into a
most engaging smile. Bruce loved to be talked to and petted by Angus. He
carried his affection for the inordinately tickled judge to the point of
trying to shake hands with him or romp with him in the ring; to the
outward scandal and inward delight of the sombre Scot.
“Can’t you keep the beast from acting like he belonged to me, when I’m
judging him?” grumpily complained McGilead, once to the Master. “A fine
impression it makes, don’t it, on strangers, when they see him come
wagging and grinning up to me and wanting to shake hands, or to roll
over for me to play with him? One fool asked me, was it my own dog I
gave the prize to. He said no outsider’s dog would be making such a fuss
over a judge. Try to keep him in better order in the ring, or I’ll prove
he isn’t mine, by ‘giving him the gate,’ one of these days. See if I
don’t.”
But he never did. And the Master knew well that he never would. So it
was that Bruce’s career as a winner continued unbrokenly, while other
champions came and went.
With dogs, as with horses, youth will be served. By the time a horse is
six, his racing days are past; and he has something like twenty years of
cart or carriage mediocrity ahead of him. His glory as a track king has
fled forever.
And with dogs—whose average life of activity runs little beyond ten
years—ring honours usually come in youth or not at all. Yes, and they
depart with youth. The dog remains handsome and useful for years
thereafter. But his head has coarsened. His figure has lost its
perfection. His gait stiffens. In a score of ways he drops back from the
standard required of winners. Younger dogs are put above him. Which is
life—whether in kennel, or in stable, or in office, or in the courts of
love. Youth wins.
Yet the passing years seemed to take no perceptible toll of Bruce. His
classic head lost none of its fineness. His body remained limber and
graceful and shapely. His coat was mightier than ever. Even McGilead’s
apprehensive and super-piercing glance could find no flaw, no sign of
oncoming age.
The years had, hitherto, been well-nigh as kind to Angus, himself. Dry
and wiry and small, he had neither shown nor felt the weight of
advancing age. Yet, now, passing his sixtieth milestone, an attack of
rheumatic fever left him oddly heavy and slothful. Instead of taking the
stairs two at a time, he set a foot on every step. And at the top of any
very long flight, he was annoyed to find himself breathing absurdly
hard.
He found himself, for the first time in his life, sneering at youth’s
gay ebullience, and snubbing the bumptiousness of his growing sons.
“Youth!” he snarled grimly once to the Master, as they met at a show.
“Everything’s for youth, these days. It was a-plenty different when I
was young. Just as a man begins to get seasoned and to know his way
around, folks call him an oldster and fix up a place for him in the
chimney corner. Youth isn’t the only thing in this world. Not by a long
sight. Take Bruce, here, for instance. (Yes, I’m talking about you, you
big ruffian! Give me your paw, now, and listen to me tell how good you
are!) Take Bruce, here, for instance. Nearly eight years old. Eight in
August, isn’t it? As old, that is, as fifty-odd for a human. And look at
him! Is there one of the young bunch of dogs that can win against
him—under any judge that knows his business? Not a one of ’em. He’s
finer to-day than he was when he came out at his first show. Us oldsters
can still hold our own, and a little more. Bring on your youngsters! Me
and Brucie are ready for ’em all. (Hey, Big Boy? Gimme your other paw,
like a gentleman! Not the left one.) Why, first time I set eyes on this
dog I said to myself—”
"I’ve got something up at The Place that’s due to give Bruce the tussle
of his life in the show ring some day," bragged the Master. “He’s
Bruce’s own son, and grandson. That means he’s pretty nearly
seventy-five per cent. Bruce. And he shows it. His kennel name’s ‘Jock.’
He’s only eight months now, and he’s the living image of what Bruce was
at his age. Best head I ever saw. Great coat, too, and carriage. He’s
the best of all Bruce’s dozens of pups, by far. I’m going to show him at
the ‘Charity’ in September.”
“Are you, though?” sniffed McGilead. “It happens I’m judging at the
‘Charity.’ (Some liars can say I’m beginning to show my age. But I take
note they keep on wanting me to judge, oftener’n ever.) I’m judging at
the ‘Charity.’ And I’ll be on the lookout for that wonderful pup of
yours. All pups are wonderful, I notice. Till they get in the ring.
Being old Bruce’s son, this youngster of yours can’t be altogether bad.
I grant that. But I’ll gamble he’ll never be what his Dad is.”
"You’ll have the first say-so on that," answered the Master. “I’m
entering Bruce for ‘Open, Any Colour,’ at the ‘Charity.’ (By the way,
it’s the old fellow’s last show. I’m going to retire him from the game
while he’s still good.) Little Jock is entered for ‘Puppy and Novice.’
It’s a cinch they’ll come together before you, in ‘winners’!”
“And when they do,” scoffed McGilead, “don’t feel too bad if Bruce gets
winners and the pup don’t get a look in. Jock may never see a winners’
class. Plenty of these promising world-beaters never do. You’re as daft
on this ‘youth’ notion as any of ’em. Here you’ve got the grandest
collie in the States. And you turn your silly back on him and go
cracking your jaw about an upstart pup of his that most likely has more
flaws than fleas—and a bushel basketful of both. Grrh!”
Often, during the next three months, Angus found his mind dwelling
reluctantly upon the newcomer. He was anxious to see the near-paragon.
He realised he was all but prejudiced against the youngster by the
Master’s boastful praise.
Then, McGilead would pull himself up, short. For he prided himself on
his four-square honesty and his dearth of prejudice in show-ring
matters. This absolute squareness had brought him where he was to-day—to
the very foremost place among all dog-show judges. It had kept him
respected and had kept his services in constant demand for decades,
while showier and lesser judges had waxed and waned and had been
forgotten.
This honesty of his was McGilead’s fetish and pride in life. Yet, here
he was, unsight, unseen, prejudiced against a dog, and that dog his
adored Bruce’s own son!
McGilead brought himself together, sharply, cursed himself for an old
blackguard, and sought to put the whole matter out of his mind. Yet,
somehow, he found himself looking forward to the five-point Charity show
more interestedly than to any such event in years.
It was one of McGilead’s myriad points of professional ethics never to
go near the collie section of any show, until after his share of the
judging should be over. Thus it was, on the day of the Charity show, his
first glimpse of Jock was when the Master led the youngster into the
ring, when the puppy class was called.
Six other pups also were brought into the ring. McGilead, as ever,
surveyed them with breathless keenness, from between his half-shut
eyes—pretending all the while to be talking interestedly with the
ring-steward—while the procession filed in through the gate.
But his eyes, once singling out Jock, refused to focus on any other
entrant. And he set his teeth in a twinge of wonder and admiration for
the newcomer. Moreover, he observed in him none of the fright, or
curiosity, or awkwardness that is the portion of so many puppies on
their first entrance to the show-ring. The youngster seemed comfortably
at home in the strange surroundings.
Nor was this unnatural. The Master had made use of a simple ruse that he
had employed more than once before. Arriving at the show, long before
the judging had begun, and while the first spectators were trailing in,
he had led Jock at once to the ring, where, of course, neither the
Master nor the dog had, technically, any right to be at such a time.
First unleashing Jock, the Master had let him roam at will for a few
minutes around the strange enclosure; then had called the wandering
collie over to him, fed him bits of fried liver and lured him into a
romp. After which, the Master had sat down on the edge of the judging
block, calling Jock to him, petting and feeding him for a few moments,
and then persuading the pup to fall asleep at his feet.
Thus, when they re-entered the ring for the judging, Jock no longer
regarded it as a strange and possibly terrifying abode. To him the ring
was now a familiar and friendly place, where he had played and slept and
been fed and made much of. All its associations were pleasant in the
puppy’s memory. And he was mildly pleased to be there again.
McGilead’s veiled eyes were studying minutely every motion and every
inch of Bruce’s young son. And as a dog lover he rejoiced at what he
saw. The pup was all the Master said and far more. Well-nigh as tall and
as strong of frame as his sire, Jock had Bruce’s classic head and
wondrous coat; the older dog’s perfect and short-backed body, ear
carriage, flawless foreface, true collie expression and grace of action,
soundness and build. Above all, Bruce had transmitted to him that same
elusive air of regal dignity and nobility.
“Walk your dogs, please!” rasped the judge, starting out of his daze to
a realisation that the seven exhibitors were waiting for him to come to
earth again.
As, seven years earlier, he had waved Bruce aside, that he might not be
bothered in his judging of the lesser contestants, so, now, he bade the
Master take Jock into a corner while the parade and the preliminary
examining went on. The Master—this time not worried—obeyed.
And the scene of Bruce’s début was re-enacted, both in puppy and in
novice classes. Not one competitor was worthy of a second’s hesitancy
between himself and Jock.
Then, for the time, the tawny débutante was allowed to go back in peace
to his bench; and the other classes were called. When “Open, Any
Colour,” came up for judging, this most crucial of all classes had fine
representation. Four sables, two tri-colours and two merles contested.
Yet, in all honesty, not one of the rest could equal old Bruce. The
great dog stood forth, pre-eminently their superior. And, with the
customary little tug of pleasure at his wizened heart, McGilead awarded
to his old favourite the squarely earned blue ribbon.
“The pup’s a wonder,” he told himself. “But the old dog is still the
best of the lot. The best of _any_ lot.”
The regular classes were judged; and the best dog in each came into the
ring for winners. At last, Bruce and Jock stood side by side on the
judging block. The contest had narrowed down to them.
And now, for the first time, McGilead was able to concentrate all his
attention and his judging prowess on a comparison of the two. For
several minutes he eyed them. He made their handlers shift the dogs’
positions. He went over them, like an inspired surgeon, with his
sensitive old fingers, though Bruce’s body was already as familiar to
his touch as is the keyboard to a pianist. He made them “show.” He
studied them from fifty angles.
Now, to casual observers, Angus McGilead was going through his task with
a perfunctory deftness that verged on boredom. The tired, half-shut eyes
and the wizened brown face gave no hint of emotion. Yet, within the
Scotchman’s heart, a veritable hell of emotion was surging.
This prolonged examination was not necessary. He had known it was not
necessary from the first instant he had seen the two dogs, sire and son,
standing side by side on the block before him. He was dragging out the
judging, partly in the vain hope of finding something to make him
reverse his first opinion, but chiefly to settle, one way or another,
the battle that was waging within him.
For, at once, his acutely practised eye had discerned that Jock was the
better dog. Not that he was better, necessarily, than Bruce had been a
few years earlier. But hitherto unnoted marks of time on the older dog
had sprung into sudden and merciless relief by comparison with the
flawless youngster.
Seen alone, or with the average opponent, these would not have been
noticeable. But alongside of Jock, the latter’s perfection brought out
every incipient flaw of age in his sire.
All this had been patent to McGilead at his first critical glance. The
younger dog was the better. Only a shade the better, thus far, it is
true. But by such shades are contests won—and lost.
No outsider—few professional judges—could have recognised the
superiority of one of the competitors over the other. Yet McGilead
recognised it as clearly as by lightning flare. And he saw his duty—the
duty that lay plain before him.
He had given Bruce his earliest ring award. He had awarded Bruce the
prize that gave the dog his championship. And now he must discrown this
collie he loved. For the first time he must pass Bruce over and give
winners to another and younger dog. Youth will be served! His heart as
sore as an ulcer, his pale and half-shut eyes smarting, the hot and
impotent wrath of old age boiling in his brain, Angus McGilead continued
his meaningless and seemingly bored inspection of the two dogs.
He loved Bruce—better than ever before he had realised. He had always
felt himself the marvellous collie’s sponsor. And now—
Oh, why hadn’t the dog’s fool of an owner had sense enough to retire him
from the ring before this inevitable downfall had come; this fate that
lies craftily in wait for dog and horse and man who stay in the game too
long?
The Master had said this was to be the old dog’s last show. His last
show! And he must leave the ring—-beaten! Beaten by a youngster, at
that! A pup who had years and years of triumphs ahead of him. Surely the
smugly perfect little tike could have waited till his sire’s retirement,
before beginning his own career of conquest! He needn’t have started out
by annexing dear old Bruce’s scalp and by smashing the old dog’s long
record of victories!
Bruce! Glorious old Brucie, whose progress had been McGilead’s own
life-monument! To slink out of the ring—at his very last show,
too—defeated by a puppy! Oh, this rotten cult of youth—youth—_youth_! He
and Bruce were both back numbers at last.
But were they?
Bruce, bored by the long wait, nudged the Scotchman’s inert fist with
his cold nose, and sought to shake hands. This diversion brought the
judge back to earth.
A gust of red rage set McGilead’s blood to swirling. On fierce impulse
he straightened his bent figure and unveiled his sleepy-looking eyes in
a glare of fury.
He laid both hands on the head of the gallant old dog whom he idolised.
“Bruce wins!” he proclaimed, his rasping voice as harsh as a file on
rusty iron. “Bruce _wins_!”
Wheeling on the Master, he croaked, in that same strained, rasping
shout, the scrap of a schooldays’ quotation which had come often to his
memory of late.
“‘It’s safer playing with the lion’s whelp than with the old lion
dying!’” he mouthed. “Bruce wins! Retire him, now! ‘Youth will be
served.’ But not till us oldsters are out of the way. Clear the ring!”
As he stamped from the enclosure he was buttonholed by a sporty-looking
man whom he had met at many a show.
“Mr. McGilead,” began the man, respectfully, “the Collie Club of the
Union has appointed me a committee of one to engage you for judge at our
annual show in November. Some of the members suggested a younger man.
But the Old Guard held out for _you_. I was going to write, but—”
“It’d have done you no good!” growled McGilead, sick with shame. “Let me
alone!”
“If it’s a question of price—” urged the puzzled man.
“Price?” snarled McGilead, turning on him in senile fury. “_Price?_
There’s only one price. And I’ve paid it. I won’t judge at your show!
I’ll never judge again at any show! My judging days are over! I’m a dead
one! I’m an old, _old_ man, I tell you! I’m in my dotage! I—why, I
couldn’t even trust myself, any more, to judge squarely. I’m _through_!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SIX: Lochinvar Bobby
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
SIX: Lochinvar Bobby
When the first Angus Mackellar left his ancestral Lochbuy moors he
brought to America the big, shaggy, broad-headed collie dog he loved—the
dog that had helped him herd his employer’s sheep for the past five
years.
Man and dog landed at Castle Garden a half century ago. From that time
on, as for three hundred years earlier, no member of the Mackellar
family was without a collie; the best and wisest to be found.
Evolution narrowed the heads and lightened the stocky frames of these
collies, as the decades crawled past.
Evolution changed the successive generations of Mackellars not at all,
except to rub smoother their Highland burr and to make them serve
America as ardently as ever their forefathers had served Scotland. But
not one of them lost his hereditary love for the dog of the moors.
Which brings us by degrees to Jamie Mackellar, grandson of the
emigrating Angus. Jamie was twenty-eight. His tough little body was so
meagrely spare that his big heart and bigger soul were almost indecently
exposed. For the rest, his speech still held an occasional word or two
of handed-down ancestral dialect. In moments of excitement these
inherited phrases came thicker; and with them a tang of Scots accent.
Jamie lived in the cheapest suburb of Midwestburg, and in one of the
suburb’s cheapest houses. But the house had a yard. And the yard
harboured a glorious old collie, a rare prize winner in his day. The
house in front of the yard, by the way, harboured Jamie’s Yorkshire wife
and their two children, Elspeth and Donald.
Jamie divided his home time between the house and the open. So—after
true Highland fashion—did the collie.
There were long rambles in the forests and the wild half-cleared land
beyond the suburb; walks that meant as much to Jamie as to the dog,
after the Scot had been driving a contractor’s truck six days of the
week for a monthly wage of seventy-five dollars.
Now, on seventy-five dollars a month many a family lives in comfort. But
the sum leaves scant margin for the less practical luxuries of life. And
in a sheepless and law-abiding region a high-quality collie is a
nonpractical luxury. Yet Jamie would almost as soon have thought of
selling one of his thick-legged children as of accepting any of the
several good offers made him for the beautiful dog which had been his
chum for so many years, the dog whose prize ribbons and cups from a
score of local shows made gay the trophy corner of the Mackellar
kitchen-parlour.
Then, on a late afternoon,—when the grand old collie was galloping
delightedly across the street to meet his home-returning master,—a
delivery motor car, driven by a speed-drunk boy, whizzed around the
corner on the wrong side of the way.
The big dog died as he had lived—gallantly and without a whine.
Gathering himself up from the muck of the road he walked steadfastly
forward to meet the fast-running Mackellar. As Jamie bent down to search
the mired body for injuries, the collie licked his master’s dear hand,
shivered slightly and fell limp across the man’s feet.
When the magistrate next morning heard that a mouth-foaming little Scot
had sprung upon the running board of a delivery car and had hauled
therefrom a youth of twice his size and had hammered the said youth into
100 per cent. eligibility for a hospital cot, he listened gravely to the
other side of the story and merely fined Jamie one dollar.