His Dog — 3 - The Ordeal

The Ordeal By dawn on Labor Day Link Ferris was astir.

A series of discomfiting baths and repeated currying with the dandy brush had made Chum's grand coat stand out in shimmering fluffiness.

A course of carefully-conducted circular promenades on the end of a chain had taught the dog to walk gaily and unrestrainedly in leash.

And any of several cryptic words, relating to hypothetical rats, and so forth, were quite enough to send up his ears.

It was sheer excitement that brought Link broad awake before sunrise on that day of days.

Ferris was infected with the most virulent form of that weird malady known as "dog-showitis."

At first he had been tempted solely by the hope of winning the hundred-dollar prize.

But latterly the urge of victory had gotten into his blood.

And he yearned, too, to let the world see what a marvelous dog was his.

He hurried through the morning chores, then dressed himself in his shabby best and hitched his horse to the antiquated Concord buggy--a vehicle he had been washing for the state occasion almost as vehemently as he had scrubbed Chum.

After a gobbled breakfast, Ferris mounted to the seat of the aged buggy, signaled Chum to leap to the battered cushion at his side and set off for Craigswold.

Long before ten o'clock his horse was safely stabled at the Craigswold livery, and Ferris was leading Chum proudly through the wicket gate leading into the country-club grounds.

All happened as the postmaster had foretold.

The clerk at the wicket asked him his name, fumbled through a ledger and a pile of envelopes and presently handed Ferris a numbered tag.

"Sixty-five," read the clerk for Link's benefit.

"That's down at the extreme right.

Almost the last bench to the right."

Into the hallowed precinct Link piloted the much-interested Chum.

There he paused for a dazzled instant.

The putting green and the fore-lawn in front of the field-stone clubhouse had been covered with a mass of wooden alleyways, each lined with a double row of stalls about two feet from the ground, carpeted with straw and having individual zinc water troughs in front of them.

In nearly every one of these "benches" was tied a dog.

There were more dogs than Link Ferris had seen before in all his quasi-dogless life.

And all of them seemed to be barking or yelping.

The din was egregious.

Along the alleyways, men and women in sport clothes were drifting, in survey of the chained exhibits.

In a central space among the lines of benches was a large square enclosure, roped off except for one aperture.

In the middle of this space, which Link rightly guessed to be the judging ring, stood a very low wooden platform.

At one side of the ring were a chair and a table, where sat a steward in a Palm Beach suit, fussily turning over the leaves of a ledger and assorting a heap of high-packed and vari-colored ribbons.

Link, mindful of instructions, bore to the right in search of a stall labeled "65." As he went, he noted that the dogs were benched in such a way that each breed had a section to itself.

Thus, while he was still some distance away from his designated bench, he saw that he was coming into a section of dogs which, in general aspect, resembled Chum.

Above this aggregation, as over others, hung a lettered sign.

And this especial sign read "Collie Section."

So Chum was a "collie"--whatever that might be.

Link took it to be a fancy term for "bird dog."

He had seen the word before somewhere.

And he remembered now that it had been in the advertisement that offered seventy-five dollars for the return of a lost "sable-and-white collie."

Yes, and Dominie Jansen had said, "sable" meant "black."

Link felt a glow of relief that the advertisement had not said "a brown-and-white collie."

Chum was viewing his new surroundings with much attention, looking up now and then into his master's face as they moved along the rackety line--as though to gain reassurance that all was well.

To a high-strung and sensitive dog a show is a terrific ordeal.

But Chum, like the aristocrat he was, bore its preliminaries with debonair calm.

Arriving at Bench 65 in the collie section, Link enthroned his dog there, fastening the chain's free end to a ring in the stall's corner.

Then, after seeing that the water pan was where Chum could reach it in case he were thirsty and that the straw made a comfortable couch for him, Ferris once more patted the worried dog and told him everything was all right.

After which Link proceeded to take a survey of the neighboring collies, the sixteen dogs which were to be Chum's competitors.

His first appraising glance of the double row of collies caused the furrow between his eyes to vanish and brought a grin of complacent satisfaction to his thin lips.

For he did not see a single entrant that, in his eyes, seemed to have a ghost of a chance against his idolized pet--not a dog as handsome or with half the look of intelligence or with the proudly gay bearing of Chum.

Of the sixteen other collies the majority were sables of divers shades.

There were three tricolors and two mist-hued merles.

Over nearly all the section's occupants a swarm of owners and handlers were just now busy with brush and cloth.

For word had come that collies were to be the second breed judged that day.

The first breed was to be the Great Danes.

As there were but three Danes in the show, their judging would be brief.

And it behooved the collies' attendants to have their entries ready.

Link, following the example of those around him, took from his pocket the molting dandy brush and set to work once more on Chum's coat.

He observed that the rest were brushing their dogs' fur against the grain, to make it fluff up.

And he reversed his own former process in imitation of them.

He had supposed until now that a collie's hair, like a man's, ought to be slicked down smooth for state occasions.

And it troubled him to find that Chum's coat rebelled against such treatment.

Now, under the reverse process, it stood out in wavy freedom.

At the adjoining stall to the left a decidedly pretty girl was watching a groom put the finishing touches to the toilet of her tricolor collie.

Link heard her exclaim in protest as the groom removed from the dog's collar a huge cerise bow she had just affixed there.

"Sorry, Miss," Ferris heard the groom explain, "but it's agin rules for a dog to go in the ring with a ribbon on.

If the judge thinks he's good enough for a ribbon he'll award him one.

But--" "Oh, he simply can't help awarding one to Morven, here!"

broke in the girl.

"CAN he, Stokes?"

"Hard to say, Miss," answered the groom imperturbably, as he wrought with brush and cloth.

"Judges has their own ideas.

We'll have to hope for the best for him and not be too sick if he gets gated."

"Gated?"

echoed the girl--an evident newcomer to the realm of showdom.

"Yes, Miss," expounded the groom.

"'Gated' means 'shown the gate.'

Some judges thins out a class that way, by sending the poorest dogs out of the ring first.

Then again, some judges--" "Oh, I'm glad I wore this dress!"

sighed the girl.

"It goes so well with Morven's color.

Perhaps the judge--" "Excuse me, Miss," put in the groom, trying not to laugh, "but the collie judge to-day is Fred Leightonhe bred the great Howgill Rival, you know--and when Leighton is in the ring, he hasn't got eyes for anything but the dogs themselves.

Begging your pardon, he wouldn't notice if you was to wear a horse blanket.

At that, Leighton's the squarest and the best--" "Look!"

whispered the girl, whose attention had wandered and whose roving gaze had settled on Chum.

"Look at that dog in the next bench.

Isn't he magnificent?"

Link swelled with pride at the lowspoken praise.

And turning away to hide his satisfaction, he saw that quite a sizable knot of spectators had gathered in front of Chum's bench.

They were inspecting the collie with manifest approval.

Chum, embarrassed by the unaccustomed notice, had moved as far as possible from his admirers, and was nuzzling his head into Ferris's hand for refuge.

"Puppy Class, Male Scotch Collies!"

droned a ring attendant, appearing for a moment at the far end of the section.

"Numbers 60, 61, 62." Three youngsters, ranging in age from seven to eleven months, were coaxed down from their straw couches by three excited owners and were convoyed fussily toward the ring.

"Novice Class next, Miss," Link heard the groom saying to the girl at the adjoining bench.

"Got his ring leash ready?"

"Ring leash!"

This was a new one to Ferris.

His eyes followed the trio of puppies shuffling ringward.

He saw that all three were on leather leashes and that their chains had been left in the stalls.

Presumably there was a law against chains in the ring.

And Link had no leash.

For an instant he was in a quandary.

Then his brow cleared.

True, he had no leash.

Yet, if chains, like bows of ribbon, were barred from the ring, he could maneuver Chum every bit as well with his voice as with any leash.

So that problem was solved.

A minute later, the three pups reappeared at the end of the section.

And behind them came the attendant, intoning: "Novice Class, Male Scotch Collies!

Numbers 64, 65, 66, 67." There was an absurd throbbing in Link Ferris's meridian.

His calloused hands shook as he unchained Chum and motioned him to leap from the bench to the ground.

Chum obeyed, but with evident uneasiness.

His odd surroundings were getting on the collie's nerves.

Link bent over him, under pretense of giving him a farewell rub with the brush.

"It's all right, Chummie!"

he crooned soothingly.

"It's all RIGHT!

I'm here.

An' nobody's goin' to bother you none.

You're a-helpin' me win that hundred.

An' you're lettin' these gold-shirt folks see what a clam' gorgeous dawg you be!

Come along, ol' friend!"

Under the comfort of his god's voice, Chum's nervousness fled.

Safe in his sublime trust that his master would let no harm befall him, the collie trotted toward the ring at Ferris's heels.

Three other novice dogs were already in the ring when Link arrived at the narrow opening.

The steward was sitting at the table as before.

At the corner of the ring, alongside the platform, stood a man in tweeds, unlighted pipe in mouth, half-shut shrewd eyes studying the dogs as they filed in through the gap in the ropes.

The inscrutable eyes flickered ever so little at sight of Chum, but at once resumed their former disinterested gaze.

"Walk close!"

whispered Link as the parade started.

Chum, hearing a command he had long since learned, ranged himself at Ferris's side and paced majestically in the procession of four.

Two of the other novice dogs were straining at their leashes; the third was hanging back and pawing frantically to break away.

Chum, unleashed, guided only by the voice, drew every eye to him by his rare beauty and his lofty self-possession.

But he was not allowed to finish the parade.

Stepping up to Ferris, Judge Leighton tapped him on the arm.

"Take your dog over to that corner," he ordered, "and keep him there."

Link fought back a yearning to punch the judge, and surlily he obeyed the mandate.

Into his memory jumped the things the groom had said about a dog being "gated."

If that judge thought for one second that any of those mutts could hold a candle to Chum--.

Again he yearned to enforce with his two willing fists his opinion of the judge.

But, as he well knew, to start a fight in this plutocratic assemblage would mean a jail term.

And in such case, what would befall the deserted Chum?

For the dog's sake he restrained himself, and he began to edge surreptitiously toward the ring exit, with a view to sliding out unperceived with his splendid, underrated dog.

But Ferris did not reach the gate unchecked.

Judge Leighton had ended the parade and had stood the three dogs, one by one and then two at a time, on the platform while he studied them.

Then he had crossed to the table and picked up the judging book and four ribbons--one blue, one red, one yellow and one white.

Three of these ribbons he handed to the three contestants' handlers.

Then he stepped across the ring to where Ferris was edging his way toward the exit; and handed Link the remaining ribbon.

It was dark blue, with gilt lettering.

Leighton did not so much as subject Chum to the handling and close inspection he had lavished on the three others.

One expert glance had told the judge that the dark-sable collie, led by this loutish countryman, was better fitted to clean up prizes at Madison Square Garden than to appear in a society dog show in the North Jersey hinterland.

Leighton had viewed Chum, as a bored musician, listening to the piano-antics of defective children, might have regarded the playing of a disguised Paderewski.

Wherefore, he had waved the dog to one side while he judged the lesser entrants, and then had given him the merited first-prize ribbon.

Link, in a daze of bliss, stalked back to the bench; with Chum capering along at his side.

The queer sixth sense of a collie told Chum his god was deliriously happy, and that Chum himself had somehow had a share in making him so.

Hence the dog's former gloomy pacing changed to a series of ecstatic little dance steps, and he kept thrusting his cold muzzle into the cup of Ferris's palm.

Again Bench 65 was surrounded by an admiring clump of spectators.

Chum and Link vied each other in their icy aloofness toward these admirers.

But with a difference.

Chum was unaffectedly bothered by so much unwelcome attention from strangers.

Ferris, on the other hand, reveled in the knowledge that his beloved pet was the center of more adulation than was any other dog in all the section.

Class after class went to be judged.

Link was sorry he had not spent more money and entered Chum in every class.

The initial victory had gone to his head.

He had not known he could be so serenely happy.

After a while, he started up at the attendant's droning announcement of, "Winners' Class, Male Scotch Collies!

Numbers 62, 65, 68,70, 73!"

Again Link and Chum set out for the ring.

Link's glee had merged into an all-consuming nervousness, comparable only to a maiden hunter's "buck ague."

Chum, once more sensing Ferris's state of mind, lost his own glad buoyancy and paced solemnly alongside, peering worriedly up into Link's face at every few steps.

All five entrants filed into the ring and began their parade.

Leighton, in view of the importance of this crowning event, did not single out any one dog, as before, to stand to one side; nor did he gate any.

He gave owners and spectators their full due, by a thorough inspection of all five contestants.

But as a result of his examination, he ended the suspense by handing Link Ferris a purple rosette, whereon was blazoned in gilt the legend, "Winners."

A salvo of handclaps greeted the eminently just decision.

And Chum left the ring, to find a score of gratulatory hands stretched forth to pat him.

Quite a little crowd escorted him back to his bench.

A dozen people picked acquaintance with Link.

They asked him all sorts of questions as to his dog.

Link made monosyllabic and noncommittal replies to all of these--even when the great Col. Cyrus Marden himself deigned to come over to the collie section and stare at Chum, accompanying his scrutiny with a volley or patronizing inquiries.

From the bystanders Link learned something of real interest--namely, that one of the "specials" was a big silver cup, to be awarded to "best collie of either sex"; and that after the females should have been, judged, the winning female and Chum must appear in the ring together to compete for this trophy.

Sure enough, in less than thirty minutes Chum was summoned to the ring.

There, awaiting him, was a dainty and temperamental merle, of the Tazewell strain.

Exquisite and high-bred as was this female competitor, Judge Leighton wasted little time on the examination before giving Ferris a tricolored ribbon, whose possession entitled him to one of the shimmering silver mugs in the near-by trophy case.

After receiving full assurance that the big cup should be his at the close of the show, Link returned to Chum's bench in ecstasy and sat down beside his tired dog, with one arm thrown lovingly round the collie's ruff.

Chum nestled against his triumphant master, as Link fondled his bunch of ribbons and went over, mentally, every move of his triumphal morning.

The milling and changing groups of spectators in front of Bench 65 did not dwindle.

Indeed, as the morning went on, they increased.

People kept coming back to the bench and bringing others with them.

Some of these people whispered together.

Some merely stared and went away.

Some asked Ferris carefully worded questions, to which the shyly happy mountaineer replied with sheepish grunts.

The long period of judging came at last to an end.

And the "Best Dog in Show" special was called.

Into the ring Ferris escorted Chum, amid a multitude of fellow winners, representing one male or female of every breed exhibited.

Leighton and another judge stood in the ring's center, and around them billowed the heterogeneous array.

The two went at their Gargantuan task with an expert swiftness.

Mercilessly, dog after dog was weeded out and gated.

At last, Chum and two others were all remaining of the many which had thronged the ring.

The spectators were banked, five deep and breathless, round the ropes.

The two judges went into brief executive session in one corner.

Then Leighton crossed to Link, for the fourth time that day, and gave him the gaudy rosette which proclaimed Chum "best dog in the show."

A roar of applause went up.

Link felt dizzy--and numb.

Then, with a gasp of rapture, he stooped and gathered the bored Chum in his long arms, in a bearlike, ecstatic hug.

"We done it, Chummie!"

he chortled.

"WE DONE IT!"

Still in a daze, he followed the steward to the trophy case, where he received not only the shining silver cup, but a "sovereign purse," wherein were ensconced ten ten-dollar gold pieces.

It was all a dream--a wonder dream from which presently he must awaken.

Link was certain of that.

But while the golden dream lasted, he knew the nameless joys of paradise.

Chum close at his side, he made his way through the congratulating crowd toward the outer gate of the country club grounds.

He had almost reached the wicket when someone touched him, with unnecessary firmness, on the shoulder.

Not relishing the familiarity, Link turned a scowling visage on the interrupter of his triumphal homeward progress.

At his elbow stood a stockily-built man, dressed with severe plainness.

"You're Lincoln Ferris?"

queried the stranger, more as if stating aggressively a fact than making an inquiry.

"Yep," said Link, cross at this annoying break-in upon his trance of happiness.

"What d'j' want?"

he added.

"Please step back to the clubhouse a minute with me," returned the stranger, civilly enough, but with the same bossy firmness in his tone that had jarred Ferris in his touch.

"One or two people want to speak to you.

Bring along your dog."

Link glowered.

He fancied he knew what was in store.

Some of the ultra select had gathered in the holy interior of the clubhouse and wanted a private view of Chum, unsullied by the noisy presence of the crowd outside.

They would talk patronizingly to Link, and perhaps even try to coax him into selling Chum.

The thought decided Ferris.

"I'm goin' home!"

he said roughly.

"You're coming with me," contradicted the man in that same quiet voice, but slipping his muscular arm into Link's. With his other hand he shifted the lapel of his coat, displaying a police badge on its reverse.

Still avoiding any outward appearance of force, he turned about, with his arm locked in Ferris's and started toward the clubhouse.

"Here!"

expostulated poor Link, with all a true mountaineer's horror of the police.

"What's all this?

I ain't broke no law!

I--"

An ugly growl from Chum punctuated his scared plea.

Noting the terror in his master's tone and the grip of the stranger on Link's arm, Chum had spun round to face the two.

The collie's eyes were fixed grimly upon the plainclothes man's temptingly thick throat.

One corner of Chum's upper lip was curled back, displaying a businesslike if snowy fang.

His head was lowered.

Deep in his furry throat a succession of legato growls were born.

The plain-clothes man knew much about dogs.

He knew, for example, that when a dog holds his head high and barks there is no special danger to be feared from him.

But he also knew that when a dog lowers his head and growls, showing his eyetooth, he means business.

And the man shrank from the menace.

One hand crept back instinctively toward his hip pocket.

Link saw the purely involuntary gesture, and he shook in his boots.

It was thus a Hampton constable had once reached back when a stray cur snapped at him.

And that constable had completed the movement by drawing a pistol and shooting the cur.

Perhaps this non-uniformed stranger meant to do the same thing.

"Hold on!"

begged Link, intervening between the man and the dog.

"I'll go along with you peaceful.

Quit, Chum!

It's all right!"

The dog still looked undecided.

He did not like this new note in his god's voice.

But he obeyed the injunction, and fell into step at Link's side as usual.

Ferris suffered himself to be piloted, unresisting, through the tattered remnant of the crowd and up the clubhouse steps.

There his conductor led him through the sacred portals and down a wide hallway to the door of a committee room.

Throwing open the door, he ushered in his captive and the dog, entering behind them and reclosing the heavy door.

In the room, round a table, sat several persons--all men except one.

The exception was the girl whose collie had had the bench next to Chum's. At the table head, looking very magisterial indeed, sat Colonel Marden.

Beside him lounged a larger and older man in a plaid sport suit.

Link's escort ranged his prisoners at the foot of the table; Chum standing tight against Ferris's knee, as if to guard him from possible harm.

Link stood glowering in sullen perplexity at the Colonel.

Marden cleared his voice pompously, then spoke.

"Ferris," he began with much impressiveness, "I am a magistrate of this county--as you perhaps know.

You may consider yourself before the Bar of Justice, and reply to my questions accordingly."

Awed by this thundered preamble, Ferris made shift to mutter: "I ain't broke no laws.

What d'j' want of me, anyhow?"

"First of all," proceeded Marden, "where did you get that dog?"

"Chum here?"

said Ferris.

"Why, I come acrost him, early last spring, on the patch of state road, jes' outside of Hampton.

He was a-layin' in a ditch, with his leg bust.

Throwed off'n a auto, I figgered it.

I took him home an'--" He paused, as the sport-suited man next to Marden nodded excitedly to the girl and then whispered to the Colonel.

"You took him home?"

pursued Marden.

"Couldn't you see he was a valuable dog?"

"I c'd see he was a sufferin' an' dyin' dawg," retorted Link.

"I c'd see he was a goner, 'less I took him home an' 'tended him.

If you're aimin' at findin' out why I went on keepin' him after that, I done so because no one claimed him.

I put up notices 'bout him.

I put one up at the post-office here, too.

I--"

"He did!"

interrupted the girl.

"That's true!

I saw it.

Only--the notice said it was a bird dog.

That's why we didn't follow it up.

He--" "Miss Gault," suggested Marden in lofty reproof, "suppose you leave the interrogatory to me, if you please?

Yes, I recollect that notice.

My attention was called to it at the time.

But," again addressing Link, "why did you call 'Glenmuir Cavalier' a 'BIRD dog'?

Was it to throw us off the track or--" "Don't know no What's-His-Name Cav'lier!"

snapped Ferris.

"This dawg's name is Chum.

Like you c'n see in my entry blank, what's layin' on the table in front of you.