butler answered his knock at the door. Why, yes, he said in answer
to Jim's question, there was a man upstairs named Gordon. He was a
great dog man; he owned kennels up in Jersey. He just got in last
night--down for the field trials and a few days' shooting before going
to South America. Some big after-the-war business. He would call Mr.
Gordon.

Jim waited anxiously on the porch, twisting his scraggly gray moustache
and biting the ends. Beside him stood old Prince, looking up into his
grave face. At last the man came out, bareheaded--tall, ruddy,
clean-cut, a sportsman every inch. Jim would have spotted him in a crowd
and he would have spotted Jim--soul mates, as it were. The quick glance
he gave old Prince was full of admiration.

"What's his name?"

"Prince."

The man looked down appraisingly at the long, straight line of the back,
the white, wavy, silken hair, that glistened like satin in the sun, the
noble dome of the head with its one lemon-coloured ear, the
intelligence, courage, and high breeding in the upraised, fearless eyes.

"Where did you get him?"

Jim told him.

"Why, I knew Doctor Tolman well. A fine old gentleman. Gordon's my name.
Mr. Taylor, I'm glad to meet you. You know, I like the looks of Prince
here. He is--well, there are not many like him. Did Doctor Tolman leave
any record of his pedigree?"

Jim's hand trembled a bit as he reached in his pocket. It was almost
with regret that he saw the unmistakable pleasure in Gordon's eyes as he
glanced quickly down the record that told why Prince was what he was.

"I tell you what I'll do," said Gordon, handing the paper back, "I'll
get on my hunting things and we'll take a little round--just you and I
and Prince. Won't you come in?"

Jim shook his head. While Gordon was gone he sat down on the stone
steps, his gun between his knees. Yonder lay the sunlit country he and
Prince knew so well. Prince came to him and laid his head on his knee.
He knew when a man was in trouble, did Prince.

All day they hunted through a country of distant prospects, a country
that rolled like the sea, a country brown with broomstraw fields, green
with pine woods, gray with patches of bare winter oaks. Back and forth
ahead, sometimes so far they could hardly make him out, again so close
they could hear the pant of his breath, swept old Prince.

Sometimes they saw him stop short, a mere speck of white against a
distant hill. Again in creek bottoms, in the edges of