f his. Once I watched him, at the
Garden Show, displaying them to some Wall Street friends. Three times
he made errors in naming his dogs. Once, when he leaned too close to
the star collie of his kennels, the dog mistook him for a stranger and
resented the intrusion by snapping at him. He did not know his own
pets, one from another. And they did not know their owner, by sight or
by scent.

At the small shows, there is an atmosphere wholly different. Few of the
big breeders bother to compete at such contests. The dogs are for the
most part pets, for which their owners feel a keen personal affection,
and which have been brought up as members of their masters' households.
Thus, if small shows seldom bring forth a world-beating dog, they at
least are full of clever and humanized exhibits and of men and women to
whom the success or failure of their canine friends is a matter of
intensest personal moment. Wherefore the small show often gives the
beholder something he can find but rarely in a larger exhibition.

A few dogs genuinely enjoy shows--or are supposed to. To many others a
dogshow is a horror.

Which windy digression brings us back by prosy degrees to Bruce and to
the Hampton dogshow.

The collies were the first breed to be judged. And the puppy class, as
usual, was the first to be called to the ring.

There were but three collie pups, all males. One was a rangy tri-color
of eleven months, with a fair head and a bad coat. The second was an
exquisite six-months puppy, rich of coat, prematurely perfect of head,
and cowhocked. These two and Bruce formed the puppy class which paraded
before Symonds in the oblong ring.

"Anyhow," whispered the Mistress as the Master led his stolidly
gigantic entry toward the enclosure, "Bruce can't get worse than a
third-prize yellow ribbon. We ought to be a little proud of that. There
are only three entries in his class."

But even that bit of barren pride was denied the awkward youngster's
sponsor. As the three pups entered the enclosure, the judge's half-shut
eyes rested on Bruce--at first idly, then in real amazement. Crossing
to the Master, before giving the signal for the first maneuvers, he
said in tired disgust--

"Please take your measly St. Bernard monstrosity out of the ring. This
is a class for collies, not for freaks. I refuse to judge that pup as a
collie."

"He's a thoroughbred," crossly protested the Master. "I have his
certified pedigree. There's no better bloo