DAN.

Dan Pelly felt like a criminal as he rattled down the dusty country

lane. But if he could only have seen Martha's face as she read his note!

She laughed at first and then her eyes grew moist. "Poor old Dan!" she

murmured to the cat. "I'm so glad he defied me. It proves he's a human

being. I'm so grateful to him for his weakness. He didn't force me to a

decision."

Arrived in town Dan Pelly parked his car at the village square, went to

the local hotel and engaged a room. He registered, "Dan Pelly and his

dog, Tiny Tim." Before he could go up to the room he was seen and

recognized by the secretary of the field trial club, Major Christensen.

"Hello, Dan, you old fossil. When did they dig you up?" the Major

saluted him affably. "Back in the game again?"

"Oh, no," Dan replied. "Just blew in to look 'em over. Got a son of old

Keepsake and Kenwood Boy here. Thought I'd start him in fast company and

see if he has any class. He's just a plug shooting dog."

"Well," the Major answered, looking Tim over with a critical and

disapproving glance, "it'll cost you twenty-five dollars to glean that

information, Dan." He took out an entry blank; Dan filled it out and

returned it together with the entrance fee. Next he visited the hotel

kitchen, where he did business with the chef and procured for Tiny Tim a

hearty ration of lamb, stew with vegetables, after which he took the

little dog up to his room. Tim sprang into bed immediately, curled up

and went to sleep.

That night Dan attended the banquet. Old friends were there, fellow

trainers, trainers he had never met before, with dogs from Canada to the

Gulf, from Maine to California. It was an exceedingly doggy party and

poor old starved Dan reveled in it. He was living again, and under the

stimulus of the unusual excitement and a couple of nips of contraband

Scotch whisky he made the speech of his career, ripped the Fish and Game

Commission up the back and ended by going upstairs and bringing Tiny Tim

down in his arms to exhibit him to those around the festal board as the

only real dog he had ever owned.

"He'll win every heat in which he's entered," Dan bragged, "and he'll

win in the finals. He looks like a mutt, but oh, boy, watch his smoke!"

When the drawing for the next day's events took place, Dan discovered

that Tiny Tim had been paired with a famous old pointer from Nevada,

known as Colonel Dorsey. Dan knew there were better dogs than Colonel

Dorsey, but they weren't very plentiful, and under the able handling of

a veteran trainer, Alf Wilkes, Dan knew Tiny Tim would have to extend

himself to center the attention of the judges on his performance. To

have Tim paired with Colonel Dorsey pleased Dan greatly, however, for if

Tim merely succeeded in running a dead heat with the Colonel, that meant

that Tim and the Colonel would fight it out together in the finals; for

Colonel Dorsey was, in the opinion of all present, the class of the

entries; he was in excellent form and condition and as full of ginger

and go as a runaway horse.

A gentleman who had arrived too late for the banquet came shouldering

his way through the crowd in the hotel lobby just after the drawing. Dan

recognized in him the gentleman who had offered him a thousand dollars

for Tiny Tim that day in the patch of cover by the side of the road. He

came smiling up to Dan Pelly and shook his hand heartily.

"I'm the owner of Colonel Dorsey," he announced. "It'll be a barrel of

fun to run my dog against Tiny Tim. A sporting dog owned and handled by

a sportsman. Mr. Pelly, we're going to have a race."

"I hope so, sir," said Dan simply. "I want Timmy to have a foeman worthy

of his steel, as the feller says."

"He will," the other promised.

He did. They were put down in a wide flat with a little watercourse

running through the center of it. The cover was low, stunted sage,

affording excellent cover for the birds and opportunities for them to

sneak away from a dog without being seen, for there was not much open

space between the sage bushes. They were away together, headed for the

watercourse, Colonel Dorsey in the lead.

Suddenly Tiny Tim stopped dead and commenced to road at right angles,

coming up into the wind. The Colonel pressed eagerly on and flushed, but

was steady to flush. So was Tiny Tim. A moment later the Colonel pointed

and Tiny Tim, standing in the open, honored the Colonel's point

beautifully, but broke point after a minute of waiting and scouted off

on a wide cast. The Colonel held his point and his handler, coming up,

attempted to flush. The point was barren. Undoubtedly the bird had been

there but had run out.

The Colonel's owner, who had been following the judges in a buckboard

with Dan Pelly in the seat beside him, looked at his guest. "I own a

colonel, but you own a general, Mr. Pelly. Your dog is handling his

birds better than mine."

"Point!" came a hoarse shout from the direction in which Tim had gone.

He had come back on his cast and was down in the watercourse on point.

Dan Pelly got out of the buckboard and flushed a double, at the same

time firing over the birds. Tim was absolutely stanch to shot and flush.

He looked disappointed because no dead bird rewarded his efforts, but

immediately pressed on up the gully. Dan Pelly thrilled. He knew the

birds would lie close in this cover and that Tim would run up a heavy

score. He did. Point after point he scored and always a single was

flushed. When he had made nineteen points on single birds the whistle

blew and the dogs were taken up.

Colonel Dorsey, ranging wide, had shown speed, style and dash but had

found no birds. Tim had made but one cast but it was sufficient to show

that he, too, had speed and range, albeit his style was nothing to brag

about. But he had performed the function for which bird dogs are bred.

He had found game and handled it in a masterly manner. The dogs were

down forty minutes and both were fresh when taken up. The judges awarded

the heat to Tiny Tim.

Colonel Dorsey's owner slapped old Dan Pelly on the back. "I came a long

way for a splendid thrashing," he admitted gallantly. "However, the

Colonel was out of luck. He got off into barren territory and rather

wasted his time. We'll meet again in the finals."

And it was even so. Three days later Tiny Tim again faced the Colonel,

who in the succeeding heats had given marvelous performances and

disposed of his antagonists in a most decisive manner. But likewise so

had Tiny Tim.

It was a battle from start to finish. Both dogs got on birdy ground at

once and worked it thoroughly, and at the finish there was little to

choose between them. Tim had two more points to his credit and no

flushes; the Colonel had one flush, due to eagerness at the start, and

he had failed to honor one of Tim's points. These errors appeared to

offset Tim's lack of style, but the latter's marvelous bird work could

not be gainsaid; and remembering the decisive manner in which the little

setter had disposed of the Colonel in the initial heat, the judges

awarded the All Age Stake, which carried with it the Pacific Coast

championship, to Tiny Tim and Dan Pelly retired to the hotel richer by

five hundred dollars and a silver loving cup. That afternoon he paid two

hundred and fifty dollars on the mortgage and had it renewed for another

year. Then he wrote a letter to Martha, bought a neat crate for Tiny Tim

and--started down the field trial circuit.

In some ways--notably dog ways--Dan Pelly was a weak vessel. He lacked

the moral courage to come home and be good forever after. Timmy was so

much better in big company than he had anticipated that should it mean

death to both of them, Dan Pelly simply had to try him out in Oregon on

pheasant. Poor Timmy had never seen a pheasant, and it was such a shame

to deny him this great adventure.

So the next Martha heard of Dan was a wire to the effect that Timmy had

taken second place in the trials on pheasant at Lebanon, Oregon. A week

later came another telegram, informing her that Timmy had taken first

money in the Washington field trials, handling Hungarian partridge for

the first time. A letter followed and Martha read:

Dear Wife:

I don't suppose you will ever believe me again now that I have broke my

word to you and run away. I don't seem to be able to help myself. Timmy

is wonderful. I've got to go on to try him on chicken in Manitoba and

then the International and the All America. I enclose $500.