THE GOLD HAT
The Place was in the North Jersey hinterland, backed by miles of hill
and forest, facing the lake that divided it from the village and the
railroad and the other new-made smears which had been daubed upon
Mother Nature's smiling face in the holy name of Civilization. The
lonely situation of The Place made Lad's self-appointed guardianship
of its acres no sinecure at all. The dread of his name spread
far--carried by hobo and by less harmless intruder.
Ten miles to northward of The Place, among the mountains of this same
North Jersey hinterland, a man named Glure had bought a rambling old
wilderness farm. By dint of much money, more zeal and most dearth of
taste, he had caused the wilderness to blossom like the Fifth
Proposition of Euclid. He had turned bosky wildwood into chaste
picnic-grove plaisaunces, lush meadows into sunken gardens, a roomy
colonial farmstead into something between a feudal castle and a
roadhouse. And, looking on his work, he had seen that it was good.
This Beautifier of the Wilderness was a financial giantlet, who had
lately chosen to amuse himself, after work-hours, by what he called
"farming." Hence the purchase and renovation of the five hundred-acre
tract, the building of model farms, the acquisition of priceless
livestock, 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 Farmer
undertook most earnestly to reproduce the story-book glories of the
life supposedly led by mid-Victorian country gentlemen. Not only in
respect to keeping open-house and in alternately patronizing and
bullying the peasantry, but in filling his gun-room shelves with cups
and other trophies won by his livestock.
To his "open house" few of the neighboring families came. The local
peasantry--Jersey mountaineers of Revolutionary stock, who had not the
faintest idea they were "peasantry" and who, indeed, had never heard
of the word--alternately grinned and swore at the Wall Street Farmer's
treatment of them, and mulcted him of huge sums for small services.
But Glure's keenest disappointment--a disappointment that crept
gradually up toward the monomania point--was the annoyingly continual
emptiness of his trophy-shelves.
When, for instance, he sent to the Paterson Livestock Show a score of
his pricelessly imported merino sheep, under his more pricelessly
imported Scotch shepherd, Mr. McGillicuddy--the sheep came ambling
back to Glure Towers Farm bearing no worthier guerdon than a single
third-prize yellow silk rosette and a "Commended" ribbon. First and
second prizes, as well as the challenge cup had gone to flocks owned
by vastly inferior folk--small farmers who had no money wherewith to
import the pick of the Scottish moors--farmers who had bred and
developed their own sheep, with no better aid than personal care and
personal judgment.
At the Hohokus Fair, too, the Country Gentleman's imported Holstein
bull, Tenebris, had had to content himself with a measly red rosette
in token of second prize, while the silver cup went to a bull owned by
an elderly North Jerseyman of low manners, who had bred his own entry
and had bred the latter's ancestors for forty years back.
It was discouraging, it was mystifying. There actually seemed to be a
vulgar conspiracy among the down-at-heel rural judges--a conspiracy to
boost second-rate stock and to turn a blind eye to the virtues of
overpriced transatlantic importations.
It was the same in the poultry shows and in hog exhibits. It was the
same at the County Fair horse-trots. At one of these trots the Wall
Street Farmer, in person, drove his $9000 English colt. And a rangy
Hackensack gelding won all three heats. In none of the three did
Glure's colt get within hailing distance of the wire before at least
two other trotters had clattered under it.
(Glure's English head-groom was called on the carpet to explain why a
colt that could do a neat 2.13 in training was beaten out in a 2.17
trot. The groom lost his temper and his place. For he grunted, in
reply, "The colt was all there. It was the driving did it.")
The gun-room's glassed shelves in time were gay with ribbon. But only
two of the three primary colors were represented there--blue being
conspicuously absent. As for cups--the burglar who should break into
Glure Towers in search of such booty would find himself the worse off
by a wageless night's work.
Then it was that the Wall Street Farmer had his Inspiration. Which
brings us by easy degrees to the Hampton Dog Show.
Even as the Fiery Cross among the Highland crags once flashed signal
of War, so, when the World War swirl sucked nation after nation into
its 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 their
fighting on the hither side of the gray seas. The country bristled
with 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 and
byway, with flaring placards announcing a Mammoth Outdoor Specialty
Dog show, to be held under the auspices of the Hampton Branch of the
American National Red Cross, on Labor Day.
Mr. Hamilcar Q. Glure, the announcement continued, had kindly donated
the use of his beautiful grounds for the Event, and had subscribed
three hundred dollars towards its running expenses and prizes.
Not only were the usual dog classes to be judged, but an added
interest was to be supplied by the awarding of no less than fifteen
Specialty Trophies.
Mr. Glure, having offered his grounds and the initial three hundred
dollars, graciously turned over the details of the Show to a
committee, whose duty it was to suggest popular Specialties and to
solicit 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 one
dollar apiece for each class--and to contribute, if he should so
desire, the sum of fifteen dollars, besides, for the purchase of a
Specialty Cup.
The Mistress was far more excited over the coming event than was the
Master. And it was she who suggested the nature of the Specialty for
which the fifteen-dollar cup should be offered.
The next outgoing mail bore the Master's check for a cup. "To be
awarded to the oldest and best-cared-for dog, of any breed, in the
Show."
It was like the Mistress to think of that, and to reward the dog-owner
whose pet's old age had been made happiest. Hers was destined to be
the most popular Specialty of the entire Show.
The Master, at first, was disposed to refuse the invitation to take
any of his collies to Hampton. The dogs were, for the most part, out
of coat. The weather was warm. At these amateur shows--as at too many
professional exhibits--there was always danger of some sick dog
spreading epidemic. Moreover, the living-room trophy-shelf at The
Place was already comfortably filled with cups; won at similar
contests. Then, too, the Master had somehow acquired a most causeless
and cordial dislike for the Wall Street Farmer.
"I believe I'll send an extra ten dollars," he told the Mistress, "and
save the dogs a day of torment. What do you think?"
By way of answer, the Mistress sat down on the floor where Lad was
sprawled, asleep. She ran her fingers through his forest of ruff. The
great dog's brush pounded drowsily against the floor at the loved
touch; and he raised his head for further caress.
"Laddie's winter coat is coming in beautifully," she said at last. "I
don'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 it
were a four-day show--if it were anything longer than a one-day
show--he shouldn't go a step. But, you see, I'd be right there with
him all the time. And I'd take him into the ring myself, as I did at
Madison Square Garden. And he won't be unhappy or lonely or--or
anything. And I always love to have people see how splendid he is. And
those Specialty Trophies are pretty, sometimes. So--so we'll do just
whatever 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, the
Mistress and the Master scanned eagerly its pages.
There were cups offered for the best tri-color collie, for the best
mother-and-litter, for the collie with the finest under-and-outer
coat, for the best collie exhibited by a woman, for the collie whose
get had won most prizes in other shows. At the very bottom of the
section, and in type six points larger than any other announcement on
the whole schedule, were the words:
"_Presented, by the Hon. Hugh Lester Maury of New York City--18-KARAT
GOLD 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--and
won't it look perfectly gorgeous in the very center of our Trophy
Shelf, 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! We
haven't got it, yet. I'll enter Lad for it, of course. But so will
every other collie-owner who reads that. Besides, even if Lad should
win it, we'd have to buy a microscope to see the thing. It will
probably be about half the size of a thimble. Gold cups cost gold
money, you know. And I don't suppose this 'Hon. Hugh Lester Maury of
New York City' is squandering more than ten or fifteen dollars at most
on a country dog show. Even for the Red Cross. I suppose he's some
Wall Street chum that Glure has wheedled into giving a Specialty. He's
a novelty to me. I never heard of him before. Did you?"
"No," admitted the Mistress. "But I feel I'm beginning to love
him. Oh, Laddie," she confided to the dog, "I'm going to give you a
bath in naphtha soap every day till then; and brush you, two hours
every morning; and feed you on liver and----"
"'Conditions announced later,'" quoted the Master, studying the
big-type offer once more. "I wonder what that means. Of course, in a
Specialty 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, there
isn'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 into
the still-more-advertised estate of Hamilcar Q. Glure, Wall Street
Farmer.
There, the sylvan stillness was shattered by barks in every key, from
Pekingese falsetto to St. Bernard bass-thunder. An open stretch of
shaded sward--backed by a stable that looked more like a dissolute
cathedral--had been given over to ten double rows of "benches," for
the anchorage of the Show's three hundred exhibits. Above the central
show-ring a banner was strung between two tree tops. It bore a blazing
red 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--of
a sort.
Lad had enjoyed the ten-mile spin through the cool morning air, in the
tonneau of The Place's only car--albeit the course of baths and
combings of the past week had long since made him morbidly aware that
a detested dog show was somewhere at hand. Now, even before the car
entered the fearsome feudal gateway of Glure Towers, the collie's ears
and nose told him the hour of ordeal was at hand.
His zest in the ride vanished. He looked reproachfully at the Mistress
and tried to bury his head under her circling arm. Lad loathed
dog shows; as does every dog of high-strung nerves and higher
intelligence. The Mistress, after one experience, had refrained
from breaking his heart by taking him to those horrors known as
"two-or-more-day Shows." But, as she herself took such childish
delight in the local one-day contests, she had schooled herself to
believe Lad must enjoy them, too.
Lad, as a matter of fact, preferred these milder ordeals, merely as a
man might prefer one day of jail or toothache to two or more days of
the same misery. But--even as he knew many lesser things--he knew the
adored Mistress and Master reveled in such atrocities as dog shows;
and that he, for some reason, was part of his two gods' pleasure in
them. Therefore, he made the best of the nuisance. Which led his
owners to a certainty that he had grown to like it.
Parking the car, the Mistress and Master led the unhappy dog to the
clerk's desk; received his number tag and card, and were shown where
to bench him. They made Lad as nearly comfortable as possible, on a
straw-littered raised stall; between a supercilious Merle and a
fluffily disconsolate sable-and-white six-month puppy that howled
ceaselessly in an agony of fright.
The Master paused for a moment in his quest of water for Lad, and
stared open-mouthed at the Merle.
"Good Lord!" he mumbled, touching the Mistress' arm and pointing to
the gray dog. "That's the most magnificent collie I ever set eyes
on. It's farewell to poor old Laddie's hopes, if he is in any of the
same classes with that marvel. Say goodby, right now, to your hopes of
the Gold Cup; and to 'Winners' in the regular collie division."
"I won't say goodby to it," refused the Mistress. "I won't do
anything of the sort. Lad's every bit as beautiful as that dog. Every
single bit."
"But not from the show-judge's view," said the Master. "This Merle's a
gem. 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 Club
circuits. Yet, this is as perfect a dog as ever Grey Mist was. It's a
pleasure to see such an animal. Or," he corrected himself, "it would
be, if he wasn't pitted against dear old Lad. I'd rather be kicked
than take Lad to a show to be beaten. Not for my sake or even for
yours. 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 Mistress
had always carried their fondness for Lad to an extent that perhaps
was absurd. Certainly absurd to the man or woman who has never owned
such 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 collie
section, trying to be interested in the line of barking or yelling
entries.
"Twenty-one collies in all," summed up the Master, as they reached the
end. "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. The
Merle's our Waterloo. Lad is due for his first defeat. Well, it'll be
a 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 Cup
is 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 array
of pretty silver cups and engraved medals look tawdrily insignificant.
Its presence had, already, drawn a goodly number of admirers--folk
at whom the guardian village constable, behind the table, stared
with sour distrust.
The Gold Cup was a huge bowl of unchased metal, its softly glowing
surface 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 claim
that the trophy was of eighteen-karat gold. Its value spoke for
itself. The vessel was like a half melon in contour and was supported
by 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 the
Mistress, after one long dumb look at it. "And it's every bit as big
as 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 handling
the National Debt!"
The Superintendent of the Show strolled up and greeted the Mistress
and the Master. The latter scarce heard the neighborly greeting. He
was scowling at the precious trophy as at a personal foe.
"I see you've entered Lad for the Gold Cup," said the Superintendent.
"Sixteen collies, in all, are entered for it. The conditions for
the Gold Cup contest weren't printed till too late to mail them.
So I'm handing out the slips this morning. Mr. Glure took charge
of their printing. They didn't get here from the job shop till
half an hour ago. And I don't mind telling you they're causing a lot
of kicks. Here's one of the copies. Look it over, and see what Lad's
up against."
"Who's the Hon. Hugh Lester Maury, of New York?" suddenly demanded the
Master, rousing himself from his glum inspection of the Cup. "I mean
the man who donated that--that Gold Hat?"
"Gold Hat!" echoed the Superintendent, with a chuckle of joy. "Gold
Hat! 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 touch
with him about the delayed set of conditions. I looked him up. That
is, I tried to. He is advertised in the premium list, as a New
Yorker. You'll remember that, but his name isn't in the New York City
Directory or in the New York City telephone book or in the suburban
telephone book. He can afford to give a sixteen hundred dollar-cup for
charity, but it seems he isn't important enough to get his name in any
directory. Funny, isn't it? I asked Glure about him. That's all the
good it did me."
"You don't mean----?" began the Mistress, excitedly.
"I don't mean anything," the Superintendent hurried to forestall
her. "I'm paid to take charge of this Show. It's no affair of mine
if----"
"If Mr. Glure chooses to invent Hugh Lester Maury and make him give a
Gold Hat for a collie prize?" suggested the Mistress. "But----"
"I didn't say so," denied the superintendent. "And it's none of my
business, anyhow. Here's----"
"But why should Mr. Glure do such a thing?" asked the Mistress, in
wonder. "I never heard of his shrinking coyly behind another name when
he wanted to spend money. I don't understand why he----"
"Here is the conditions-list for the Maury Specialty Cup," interposed
the superintendent with extreme irrelevance, as he handed her a pink
slip of paper. "Glance over it."
The Mistress took the slip and read aloud for the benefit of the
Master 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 at
least one blue ribbon at a licensed American or British Kennel Club
Show._'"
"That single clause has barred out eleven of the sixteen entrants,"
commented the Superintendent. "You see, most of the dogs at these
local Shows are pets, and hardly any of them have been to Madison
Square Garden or to any of the other A. K. C. shows. The few that have
been to them seldom got a Blue."
"Lad did!" exclaimed the Mistress joyfully. "He took two Blues at the
Garden last year; and then, you remember, it was so horrible for him
there 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 a
certified five-generation pedigree, containing the names of at least
ten champions._' Lad had twelve in his pedigree," she added, "and it's
certified."
"Two more entrants were killed out by _that_ clause," remarked the
Superintendent, "leaving only three out of the original sixteen. Now
go ahead with the clause that puts poor old Lad and one other out of
the running. I'm sorry."
"'_Third_,'" the Mistress read, her brows crinkling and her voice
trailing as she proceeded. "'_Each contestant must go successfully
through the preliminary maneuvers prescribed by the Kirkaldie
Association, Inc., of Great Britain, for its Working Sheepdog
Trials._'--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 a
Specialty Show."
"No," agreed the Superintendent, "nor anybody else. Naturally, Lad
isn't a 'working' sheepdog. There probably haven't been three
'working' sheepdogs born within a hundred miles of here, and it's a
mighty safe bet that no 'working' sheepdog has ever taken a 'Blue' at
an A. K. C. Show. A 'working' dog is almost never a show dog. I know
of only one either here or in England; and he's a freak--a miracle. So
much so, that he's famous all over the dog-world."
"Do you mean Champion Lochinvar III?" asked the Mistress. "The dog the
Duke of Hereford used to own?"
"That's the dog. The only----"
"We read about him in the _Collie Folio_," said the Mistress. "His
picture was there, too. He was sent to Scotland when he was a puppy,
the _Folio_ said, and trained to herd sheep before ever he was
shown. His owner was trying to induce other collie-fanciers to make
their dogs useful and not just Show-exhibits. Lochinvar is an
international 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, "Lochinvar
might have a chance to win a nice Gold Hat."
"He has," replied the superintendent. "He has every chance, and the
only chance."
"_Who_ has?" queried the puzzled Mistress.
"Champion Lochinvar III," was the answer. "Glure bought him by
cable. Paid $7000 for him. That eclipses Untermeyer's record price of
$6500 for old Squire of Tytton. The dog arrived last week. He's
here. 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 heard
of in my life! Do you mean to tell me Mr. Glure put up this sixteen
hundred-dollar cup and then sent for the only dog that could fulfill
the Trophy's conditions? It's unbelievable!"
"It's Glure," tersely replied the Superintendent. "Which perhaps
comes to the same thing."
"Yes!" spoke up the Master harshly, entering the talk for the first
time, and tearing his disgusted attention from the Gold Hat. "Yes,
it's Glure, and it's unbelievable! And it's worse than either of
those, if anything can be. Don't you see the full rottenness of it
all? Half the world is starving or sick or wounded. The other half is
working its fingers off to help the Red Cross make Europe a little
less like hell; and, when every cent counts in the work, this--this
Wall Street Farmer spends sixteen hundred precious dollars to buy
himself a Gold Hat; and he does it under the auspices of the Red
Cross, in the holy name of charity. The unsportsmanlikeness of it is
nothing to that. It's--it's an Unpardonable Sin, and I don't want to
endorse 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'd
do it in a minute if we were able to. I feel we're insulting loyal old
Lad 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 should
be. You've told me, again and again, that no true sportsman will back
out of a contest just because he finds he has no chance of winning
it."
"She's right," chimed in the Superintendent. "You've entered the dog
for the contest, and by all the rules he'll have to stay in it. Lad
doesn't know the first thing about 'working.' Neither does the
only other local entrant that the first two rules have left in
the competition. And Lochinvar is perfect at every detail of
sheep-work. Lad and the other can't do anything but swell his
victory. It's rank bad luck, but----"
"All right! All right!" growled the Master. "We'll go through with
it. Does anyone know the terms of a 'Kirkaldie Association's
Preliminaries,' for 'Working Sheepdog Trials?' My own early education
was neglected."
"Glure's education wasn't," said the Superintendent. "He has the full
set 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 let
me copy the laws governing the preliminaries. They're absurdly simple
for 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 of
pencil-scribblings:
"Four posts shall be set up, at ninety yards apart, at the corners of
a square enclosure. A fifth post shall be set in the center. At this
fifth post the owner or handler of the contestant shall stand with his
dog. Nor shall such owner or handler move more than three feet from
the post until his dog shall have completed the trial.
"Guided only by voice and by signs, the dog shall go alone from the
center-post to the post numbered '1.' He shall go thence, in the order
named, to Posts 2, 3 and 4, without returning to within fifteen feet
of 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 dogs
which shall make the prescribed tour of the posts directed wholly
by signs and without the guidance of voice."
"There," finished the superintendent, "you see it is as simple as a
kindergarten game. But a child who had never been taught could not
play Puss-in-the-Corner.' I was talking to the English trainer that
Glure bought along with the dog. The trainer tells me Lochinvar can go
through those maneuvers and a hundred harder ones without a word being
spoken. He works entirely by gestures. He watches the trainer's
hand. 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 a
delight to watch him."
"The delight is all his," grumbled the Master. "Poor, poor Lad! He'll
get 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 up
Glure's flock of sheep--when he'd never seen a sheep before. That was
ancestral instinct. A throwback. But ancestral instinct won't teach
him to go to Post 1 and 2 and 3 and 4. He----"
"Hello, people!" boomed a jarringly cordial voice. "Welcome to the
Towers!"
Bearing down upon the trio was a large person, round and yellow of
face and clad elaborately in a morning costume that suggested a
stud-groom with ministerial tendencies. He was dressed for the
Occasion. Mr. Glure was always dressed for the Occasion.
"Hello, people!" repeated the Wall Street Farmer, alternately
pump-handling the totally unresponsive Mistress and Master. "I see
you've been admiring the Maury Trophy. Magnificent, eh? Oh, Maury's a
prince, I tell you! A prince! A bit eccentric, perhaps--as you'll have
guessed by the conditions he's put up for the cup. But a prince. A
prince! We think everything of him on the Street. Have you seen my new
dog? Oh, you must go and take a look at Lochinvar! I'm entering him
for the Maury Trophy, you know."
"Yes," assented the Master dully, as Mr. Glure paused to breathe. "I
know."
He left his exultant host with some abruptness, and piloted the
Mistress back to the Collie Section. There they came upon a scene of
dire wrath. Disgruntled owners were loudly denouncing the Maury
conditions-list, and they redoubled their plaint at sight of the two
new victims of the trick.
Folk who had bathed and brushed and burnished their pets for days, in
eager anticipation of a neighborhood contest, gargled in positive
hatred at the glorious Merle. They read the pink slips over and over
with more rage at each perusal.
One pretty girl had sat down on the edge of a bench, gathering her
beloved gold-and-white collie's head in her lap, and was crying
unashamed. The Master glanced at her. Then he swore softly, and set to
work helping the Mistress in the task of fluffing Lad's glossy coat to
a final soft shagginess.
Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say; but Lad realized more
keenly 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 the
opposite bench, "Lochinvar's not entered for anything except the Maury
Cup. The clerk told me so."
"Little good that will do any of us!" retorted her bench-neighbor. "In
an all-specialty show, the winner of the Maury Trophy will go up for
the 'Winners Class,' and that means Lochinvar will get the cup for
the '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," lamented
the other. "It's slated to be called before even the Puppy and the
Novice classes. Mr. Glure has----"
"Contestants for the Maury Trophy--all out!" bawled an attendant at
the end of the section.
The Master unclasped the chain from Lad's collar, snapped the light
show-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 to
think of your handling a loser."
"I'd rather take Lad to defeat than any other dog to--a Gold Hat," she
answered, sturdily. "Come along, Laddie!"
The Maury contest, naturally, could not be decided in the regular
show-ring. Mr. Glure had thoughtfully set aside a quadrangle of
greensward for the Event--a quadrangle bounded by four white and
numbered posts, and bearing a larger white post in its center.
A throng of people was already banked deep on all four sides of the
enclosure when the Mistress arrived. The collie judge standing by the
central post declaimed loudly the conditions of the contest. Then he
asked for the first entrant.
This courtier of failure chanced to be the only other local dog
besides Lad that had survived the first two clauses of the conditions.
He chanced also to be the dog over which the pretty girl had been
crying.
The girl's eyes were still red through a haze of powder as she led her
slender little gold-and-snow collie into the ring. She had put on a
filmy white muslin dress with gold ribbons that morning with the idea
of matching her dog's coloring. She looked very sweet and dainty--and
heartsore.
At the central post she glanced up hopelessly at the judge who stood
beside her. The judge indicated Post No. 1 with a nod. The girl
blinked at the distant post, then at her collie, after which she
pointed 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, and
barked. But he did not stir. He had not the faintest idea what she
wanted him to do, although he would have been glad to do it.
Wherefore, the bark.
Presently (after several more fruitless entreaties which reduced the
dog 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 the
quadrangle and up to the central post. She was very pale, but her
thoroughbred nerves were rocklike in their steadiness. She, like Lad,
was of the breed that goes down fighting. Lad walked majestically
beside her, his eyes dark with sorrow over his goddess' unhappiness,
which he could not at all understand and which he so longed to
lighten. Hitherto, at dog shows, Lad had been the only representative
of The Place to grieve.
He thrust his nose lovingly into the Mistress' hand, as he moved along
with her to the post; and he whined, under his breath.
Ranging up beside the judge, the Mistress took off Lad's leash and
collar. Stroking the dog's upraised head, she pointed to the No. 1
Post.
"Over there," she bade him.
Lad looked in momentary doubt at her, and then at the post. He did not
see the connection, nor know what he was expected to do. So, again he
looked 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 from
puppy-hood the meaning of the word "Go!" coupled with the pointing of
a finger. Fingers had pointed, hundreds of times, to kennels or to the
open doorways or to canoe-bottoms or to car tonneaus or to whatsoever
spot 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 finger
indicated. There was nothing of interest over there; no one to attack
at 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, because
the Mistress told him to! Since she had brought him out before this
annoying concourse of humans to show off his obedience all he could do
was to obey. The knowledge of her mysterious sadness made him the more
anxious to please her.
So on he went. Presently, as his progress brought him alongside a
white post, he heard the Mistress call again. He wheeled and started
toward 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 that
had meant "Stop!" from the time he had been wont to run into the house
with muddy feet, as a puppy.
Lad stood, uncertain. And now the Mistress was pointing another way
and calling:
"Go on! Lad! Go on!"
Confused, the dog started in the new direction. He went slowly. Once
or twice he stopped and looked back in perplexity at her; but, as
often, came the steady-voiced order:
"Go on! Lad! Go _on!_"
On plodded Lad. Vaguely, he was beginning to hate this new game played
without known rules and in the presence of a crowd. Lad abominated a
crowd.
But it was the Mistress' bidding, and in her dear voice his quick
hearing could read what no human could read--a hard-fought longing to
cry. It thrilled the big dog, this subtle note of grief. And all he
could do to ease her sorrow, apparently, was to obey this queer new
whim of hers as best he might.
He had continued his unwilling march as far as another post when the
welcome word of recall came--the recall that would bring him close
again to his sorrowing deity. With a bound he started back to her.
But, for the second time, came that palm-forward gesture and the cry
of "Stop! Go _back!_"
Lad paused reluctantly and stood panting. This thing was getting on
his fine-strung nerves. And nervousness ever made him pant.
The Mistress pointed in still another direction, and she was calling
almost beseechingly:
"Go on, Lad! Go _on!_"
Her pointing hand waved him ahead and, as before, he followed its
guidance. Walking heavily, his brain more and more befogged, Lad
obeyed. This time he did not stop to look to her for instructions.
From the new vehemence of the Mistress' gesture she had apparently
been ordering him off the field in disgrace, as he had seen puppies
ordered from the house. Head and tail down, he went.
But, as he passed by the third of those silly posts, she recalled
him. Gleeful to know he was no longer in disgrace he galloped toward
the Mistress; only to be halted again by that sharp gesture and
sharper command before he had covered a fifth of the distance from the
post to herself.
The Mistress was actually pointing again--more urgently than ever--and
in still another direction. Now her voice had in it a quiver that
even the humans could detect; a quiver that made its sweetness all but
sharp.
"Go on, Lad! Go _on!_"
Utterly bewildered at his usually moodless Mistress' crazy mood and
spurred by the sharp reprimand in her voice Lad moved away at a
crestfallen walk. Four times he stopped and looked back at her, in
piteous appeal, asking forgiveness of the unknown fault for which she
was 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 and
ear-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 her
expecting at every step that hateful command of "Go _back!_"
But she did not send him back. Instead, she was running forward to
meet him. And out of her face the sorrow--but not the desire to
cry--had been swept away by a tremulous smile.
Down on her knees beside Lad the Mistress flung herself, and gathered
his head in her arms and told him what a splendid, dear dog he was and
how proud she was of him.
All Lad had done was to obey orders, as any dog of his brain and heart
and home training might have obeyed them. Yet, for some unexplained
reason, he had made the Mistress wildly happy. And that was enough for
Lad.
Forgetful of the crowd, he licked at her caressing hands in puppylike
ecstasy; then he rolled in front of her; growling ferociously and
catching one of her little feet in his mighty jaws, as though to
crush it. This foot-seizing game was Lad's favorite romp with the
Mistress. With no one else would he condescend to play it, and the
terrible white teeth never exerted the pressure of a tenth of an ounce
on 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'll
lose. But we'll 'lose right.' We've made the contest. You _did_ it!"
And now a lot of noisy and bothersome humans had invaded the
quadrangle and wanted to paw him and pat him and praise him. Wherefore
Lad at once got to his feet and stood aloofly disdainful of everything
and everybody. He detested pawing; and, indeed, any outsider's
handling.
Through the congratulating knot of folk the Wall Street Farmer elbowed
his way to the Mistress.
"Well, well!" he boomed. "I must compliment you on Lad! A really
intelligent dog. I was surprised. I didn't think any dog could make
the round unless he'd been trained to it. Quite a dog! But, of
course, you had to call to him a good many times. And you were
signaling pretty steadily every second. Those things count heavily
against you, you know. In fact, they goose-egg your chances if another
entrant can go the round without so much coaching. Now my dog
Lochinvar never needs the voice at all and he needs only one slight
gesture for each manoeuver. Still, Lad did very nicely. He--why does
the 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 local
contingent made much of him, and where--after the manner of a
high-bred dog at a Show--he drank much water and would eat nothing.
When the Mistress went again to the quadrangle, the crowd was banked
thicker than ever, for Lochinvar III was about to compete for the
Maury Trophy.
The Wall Street Farmer and the English trainer had delayed the Event
for several minutes while they went through a strenuous dispute. As
the 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 as
well 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, "and
I've put him through those rounds a dozen times. He knows me and he
goes through it all like clockwork for me. Here! Give me his leash!"
He snatched the leather cord from the protesting trainer and, with a
yank at it, started with Lochinvar toward the central post. The
aristocratic Merle resented the uncalled-for tug by a flash of
teeth. Then he thought better of the matter, swallowed his resentment
and paced along beside his visibly proud owner.
A murmur of admiration went through the crowd at sight of Lochinvar as
he moved forward. The dog was a joy to look on. Such a dog as one
sees perhaps thrice in a lifetime. Such a dog for perfect beauty, as
were Southport Sample, Grey Mist, Howgill Rival, Sunnybank Goldsmith
or Squire of Tytton. A dog, for looks, that was the despair of all
competing dogdom.
Proudly perfect in carriage, in mist-gray coat, in a hundred
points--from the noble pale-eyed head to the long massy
brush--Lochinvar III made people catch their breath and stare. Even
the Mistress' heart went out--though with a tinge of shame for
disloyalty to Lad--at his beauty.
Arrived at the central post, the Wall Street Farmer unsnapped the
leash. Then, one hand on the Merle's head and the other holding a
half-smoked cigar between two pudgy fingers, he smiled upon the tense
onlookers.
This was his Moment. This was the supreme moment which had cost him
nearly ten thousand dollars in all. He was due, at last, to win a
trophy that would be the talk of all the sporting universe. These
country-folk who had won lesser prizes from under his very nose--how
they 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 first
two fingers of his right hand, he pointed majestically with the same
hand to the first post.
No word of command was given; yet Lochinvar moved off at a sweeping
run directly in the line laid out by his owner's gesture.
As the Merle came alongside the post the Wall Street Farmer snapped
his 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 the
Wall Street Farmer had not taken sufficient account of the cigar stub
he held. The snapping motion had brought the fire-end of the stub
directly between his first and second fingers, close to the palm. The
red coal bit deep into those two tenderest spots of all the hand.
With a reverberating snort the Wall Street Farmer dropped the
cigar-butt and shook his anguished hand rapidly up and down, in the
first sting of pain. The loose fingers slapped together like the
strands of an obese cat-of-nine-tails.
And this was the gesture which Lochinvar beheld, as he turned to catch
the signal for his next move.
Now, the frantic St. Vitus shaking of the hand and arm, accompanied by
a clumsy step-dance and a mouthful of rich oaths, forms no signal
known to the very cleverest of "working" collies. Neither does the
inserting of two burned fingers into the signaler's mouth--which was
the second motion the Merle noted.
Ignorant as to the meaning of either of these unique signals the dog
stood, puzzled. The Wall Street Farmer recovered at once from his fit
of 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 understood
perfectly well. Yet, after the manner of the best-taught "working"
dogs, he had been most rigidly trained from earliest days to finish
the 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 await
instructions. Again he had obeyed. Next, he had received a wildly
emphatic series of signals whose meaning he could not read. A long
course of training told him he must wait to have these gestures
explained to him before undertaking to obey the simple signal that had
followed.
This, in his training kennel, had been the rule. When a pupil did not
understand an order he must stay where he was until he could be made
to understand. He must not dash away to carry out a later order that
might perhaps be intended for some other pupil.
Wherefore, the Merle stood stock still. The Wall Street Farmer
repeated the gesture of pointing toward the next post. Inquiringly,
Lochinvar watched him. The Wall Street Farmer made the gesture a
third time--to no purpose other than to deepen the dog's look of
inquiry. Lochinvar was abiding, steadfastly, by his hard-learned
lessons 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 his
easily-losable self control. Again, these inferior country folk
seemed about to wrest from him a prize he had deemed all his own, and
to rejoice in the prospect.
"You mongrel cur!" he bellowed. "Get along there!"
This diction meant nothing to Lochinvar, except that his owner's
temper was gone--and with it his scanty authority.
Glure saw red--or he came as near to seeing it as can anyone outside a
novel. He made a plunge across the quadrangle, seized the beautiful
Merle by the scruff of the neck and kicked him.
Now, here was something the dog could understand with entire
ease. This loud-mouthed vulgarian giant, whom he had disliked from the
first, was daring to lay violent hands on him--on Champion Lochinvar
III, the dog-aristocrat that had always been handled with deference
and whose ugly temper had never been trained out of him.
As a growl of hot resentment went up from the onlookers, a far more
murderously resentful growl went up from the depths of Lochinvar's
furry 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 were
burying themselves deep in the calf of the Wall Street Farmer's
leg.
Then the trainer and the judge seized on the snarlingly floundering
pair. What the outraged trainer said, as he ran up, would have brought
a blush to the cheek of a waterside bartender. What the judge said (in
a tone of no regret, whatever) was:
"Mr. Glure, you have forfeited the match by moving more than three
feet from the central post. But your dog had already lost it by
refusing to 'work' at your command. Lad wins the Maury Trophy."
* * * * *
So it was that the Gold Hat, as well as the modest little silver "Best
Collie" cup, went to The Place that night. Setting the golden
monstrosity 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 hold
a thousand yards of surgical dressings; and gallons of medicine and
broth, besides. And that's what it is going to hold. To-morrow I'll
send 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 to
have it melted down to buy hospital supplies. If that doesn't take off
its curse of unsportsmanliness, nothing will. I'll get you something
to take its place, as a trophy."
But there was no need to redeem that promise. A week later, from
Headquarters, came a tiny scarlet enamel cross, whose silver back bore
the inscription:
"_To SUNNYBANK LAD; in memory of a generous gift to Humanity._"
"Its face-value is probably fifty cents, Lad, dear," commented the
Mistress, as she strung the bit of scarlet on the dog's shaggy
throat. "But its heart value is at least a billion dollars. Besides--you
can wear it. And nobody, outside a nightmare, could possibly
have worn kind, good Mr. Hugh Lester Maury's Gold Hat. I must
write to Mr. Glure and tell him all about it. How tickled he'll be!
Won't he, Laddie?"