Bruce | Page 5

Lass's run. He
was not much of a visitor, being a pallid and rather shabbily dressed lad
of twelve, with a brand-new chain and collar in his hand.

"You see," he was confiding to the bored kennel-man who had been
detailed by the foreman to take him around the kennels, "when I got the
check from Uncle Dick this morning, I made up my mind, first thing, to
buy a dog with it, even if it took every cent. But then I got to thinking
I'd need something to fasten him with, so he wouldn't run away before
he learned to like me and want to stay with me. So when I got the
check cashed at the store, I got this collar and chain."
"Are you a friend of the boss?" asked the kennel-man.
"The boss?" echoed the boy. "You mean the man who owns this place?
No, sir. But when I've walked past, on the road, I've seen his 'Collies
for Sale' sign, lots of times. Once I saw some of them being exercised.
They were the wonderfulest dogs I ever saw. So the minute I got the
money for the check, I came here. I told the man in the front yard I
wanted to buy a dog. He's the one who turned me over to you. I
wish--OH!" he broke off in rapture, coming to a halt in front of Lass's
run. "Look! Isn't he a dandy?"
Lass had trotted hospitably forward to greet the guest. Now she was
standing on her hind legs, her front paws alternately supporting her
fragile weight on the wire of the fence and waving welcomingly toward
the boy. Unknowingly, she was bidding for a master. And her wistful
friendliness struck a note of response in the little fellow's heart. For he,
too, was lonesome, much of the time, as is the fate of a sickly only
child in an overbusy home. And he had the true craving of the lonely
for dog comradeship.
He thrust his none-too-clean hand through the wire mesh and patted the
puppy's silky head. Lass wiggled ecstatically under the unfamiliar
caress. All at once, in the boy's eyes, she became quite the most
wonderful animal and the very most desirable pet on earth,
"He's great!" sighed the youngster in admiration; adding naïvely: "Is he
Champion Rothsay Chief--the one whose picture was in The Bulletin
last Sunday?"
The kennel-man laughed noisily. Then he checked his mirth, for

professional reasons, as he remembered the nature of the boy's quest
and foresaw a bare possibility of getting rid of the unwelcome Lass.
"Nope," he said. "This isn't Chief. If it was, I guess your Uncle Dick's
check would have to have four figures in it before you could make a
deal. But this is one of Chief's daughters. This is Rothsay Lass. A grand
little girl, ain't she? Say,"--in a confidential whisper,--"since you've
took a fancy for her, maybe I could coax the old man into lettin' you
have her at an easy price. He was plannin' to sell her for a hundred or
so. But he goes pretty much by what I say. He might let her go
for--How much of a check did you say your uncle sent you?"
"Twelve dollars," answered the boy,--"one for each year. Because I'm
named for him. It's my birthday, you know. But--but a dollar of it went
for the chain and the collar. How much do you suppose the gentleman
would want for Rothsay Lass?"
The kennel-man considered for a moment. Then he went back to the
house, leaving the lad alone at the gate of the run. Eleven dollars, for a
high-pedigreed collie pup, was a joke price. But no one else wanted
Lass, and her feed was costing more every day. According to Rothsay
standards, the list of brood-females was already complete. Even as a
gift, the kennels would be making money by getting rid of the
prick-eared "second." Wherefore he went to consult with the foreman.
Left alone with Lass, the boy opened the gate and went into the run. A
little to his surprise Lass neither shrank from him nor attacked him. She
danced about his legs in delight, varying this by jumping up and trying
to lick his excited face. Then she thrust her cold nose into the cup of his
hand as a plea to be petted.
When the kennel-man came back, the boy was sitting on the dusty
ground of the run, and Lass was curled up rapturously in his lap,
learning how to shake hands at his order.
"You can have her, the boss says," vouchsafed the kennel-man.
"Where's the eleven dollars?"

By this graceless speech Dick Hazen received the key to the Seventh
Paradise, and a life-membership in the world-wide Order of
Dog-Lovers.
The homeward