Lad: A Dog

by Albert Payson Terhune

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 tricolor 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 treetops. 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 good-by, right now, to your hopes of the Gold Cup; and to ‘Winners’ in the regular collie division.”

  “I won’t say good-by 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. Certa
inly absurd to the man or woman who has never owned such a superdog 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 Sheep-dog Trials.’— But,” she protested, “Lad isn’t a ‘working’ sheep dog! 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’ sheep dog. There probably haven’t been three ‘working’ sheep dogs born within a hundred miles of here, and it’s a mighty safe bet that no ‘working’ sheep dog 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 $7,000 for him. That eclipses Untermeyer’s record price of $6,500 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 in every detail of sheep work. Lad and the other can’t do anything but swell his victory. It’s rank bad luck, but-”