bruce was a collie—physically and in many other ways a super-collie. twenty-six inches at the shoulder, seventy-five pounds in weight, his great frame had no more hint of coarseness than had his classic head and foreface.
his mighty coat was black-stippled at its edges, like seedley stirling’s, giving the dog almost the look of a “tricolour” rather than of a “dark-sable-and-white.” there was an air of majesty, of perfect breeding, about bruce—an intangible something that lent him the bearing of a monarch. he was, in brief, such a dog as one sees perhaps thrice in a generation.
at the place, after old lad’s death, bruce ruled as king. he was no mere kennel dog—reared and cared for like some prize ox—but was part and parcel of the household, a member of the family, as befitted a dog of his beauty and brain and soul.
124it was when bruce was less than a year old that he was taken to his first a.k.c. bench show. the master was eager that the dog-show world should acclaim his grand young dog, and that the puppy—like the youthful knights of old—should have fair chance to prove his mettle against the paladins of his kind. for it is in these shows that a dog’s rating is determined; that he is pitted against the best in dogdom, before judges who are almost always competent and still oftener honest in their decisions.
the goal of the show dog is the championship, whose fifteen points must be annexed under no less than three judges, at three different times; in ratings that range from one point to five points, according to the number of dogs exhibited. to only the show’s best dog of his or her special breed and sex are points awarded.
the master took bruce to his first a.k.c. show with much trepidation. he knew how perfect was this splendid young collie of his. but he also knew that the judge might turn out to be some ultra-modernist who preferred daintiness of head and smallness of bone and borzoi fore-face, to bruce’s wealth of bone and thickness of coat and unwonted size.
modestly, therefore, he entered his dog only in the puppy and novice classes, and strove to cure his own show-ague by ceaseless grooming and rubbing and dandy-brushing of the youngster, whose burnished coat already stood out like a circassian beauty’s hair and who was fit in every way to make the showing of his life.
in intervals of polishing the bored puppy’s coat, the master spent much time in studying covertly the collie judge, who was chatting with a group of friends at the ring’s edge, waiting for his breed’s classes to be called.
125the master was partly puzzled, partly reassured, by the aspect of the little judge.
angus mcgilead’s linlithgow birth was still apparent in the very faintest burr of his speech and in the shrewd, pale eyes that peered, terrier-like, above his lean face and huge thatch of grizzling red beard. he was a man whose forebears had known collies as they knew their own children, and who rated a true collie above all mere money price.
from childhood mcgilead had made a life study of this, his favourite breed. as a result, he was admittedly the chief collie authority on either side of the grey ocean. this fact, and his granite honesty, made him a judge to be looked up to with a reverent faith which had in it a tinge of fear.
such was the man who, at this three-point show, was to pass judgment on bruce.
after an eternity of waiting, the last airedale was led from the judging ring. the first collie class, “puppies, male,” was chalked on the blackboard. the master, with one final ministration of the dandy-brush, snapped a ring-leash on bruce’s collar, and led him down the collie section into the ring.
four other puppies were already there. mcgilead, his shrewd pale eyes half shut, was lounging in one end of the enclosure, apparently listening to something the ring-steward was saying, but with his seemingly careless gaze and his keen mind wholly absorbed in watching the little procession of pups as it filed into the ring. under the sandy lashes, his eyes caressed or censured all the entrants in turn, boring into their very souls.
then, as the last of the five walked in and the gate was shut behind them, he came to life. approaching the huddle of dogs and their handlers, he singled out a shivering 126little puppy whose baby fur had not yet been lost in the rough coat of maturity and whose body was still pudgy and formless.
“how old is this pup?” he asked the woman who was tugging at the boundingly excited baby’s leash.
“six months, yesterday!” was the garrulous answer. “isn’t he a little beauty, judge? two days younger and he’d have been too young to show. he just comes in the law. it’s lucky he wasn’t born two days later.”
“no,” gently contradicted mcgilead, petting the downy little chap. “it’s unlucky. both for you and for him. the rules admit a pup to the show ring at six months. the rules are harsh, for they make him compete with dogs almost double his age. the puppy limit is from six to twelve months in shows. i don’t want you to feel bad when i refuse to judge this little fellow. it isn’t your fault, nor his, that he hasn’t begun to develop. but it would be like putting a child of five into competitive examination at school with a lad of twenty.”
motioning her gently to a far corner, he rasped at the others. “walk your dogs, please!”
the procession started around the ring. presently, mcgilead waved the master to take bruce to one side. then he placed one after another of the remaining dogs on the central block and went over them with infinite care. at the end of the inspection, he beckoned the worried master to bring bruce to the block. after running his hands lightly over and under the pup, he turned to the ring-steward, who stood waiting with a ledger and a handful of ribbons.
writing down four numbers in the book, mcgilead took a blue and a red and a yellow and a white ribbon and advanced again toward the waiting exhibitors.
127(and this, by the way, is the big moment, to any dog handler—this instant when the judge is approaching with the ribbons. for sheer thrill, it makes roulette and horse-racing seem puerile.)
to the master, the little judge handed the blue ribbon. then he awarded the red “second” and the yellow “third” and the white “reserve” to three others.
the recipient of the reserve snorted loudly.
“say!” he complained. “better judges than you have said this pup of mine is the finest collie of his age in america. what do you mean by giving him a measly reserve? what’s the matter with him?”
"compared with what’s the matter with you," drawled mcgilead, unruffled, “there’s nothing at all the matter with him. didn’t anybody ever tell you how unsportsmanlike it is to argue a judge’s decision in the ring? it’s against the a.k.c. rules, too. i’m always glad, later, to explain my rulings to any one who asks me civilly. since you want to know what’s the matter with your dog, i’ll tell you. he has spaniel ears. fault number one. he is cow-hocked. fault number two. he is apple-domed, and he’s cheeky and he has a snipe-nose. faults three, four and five. he’s long-bodied and swaybacked and over-shot and his undercoat is as thin as your own sportsmanship. he carries his tail high over his back, too. and his outer coat is almost curly. those are all the faults i can see about him just now. he’ll never win anything in any a.k.c. show. it’s only fair to tell you that; to save you further money and to save you from another such dirty breach of sportsmanship. that’s all.”
the master, covertly petting bruce and telling him in a whisper what a grand dog he was, waited at an end of the ring for the next class—"the novice"—to be called.
128here the competition was somewhat keener. yet the result was the same. and bruce found himself with another dark blue ribbon in token of his second victory.
then, when the winning dogs of every class were brought into the ring for "winners"—to decide on the best male collie,—bruce received the winner’s rosette, and found himself advanced three points on his fifteen-point journey toward the championship.
when the collie judging was over and the master sat on the bench edge, petting his victorious dog, angus mcgilead strolled over to where the winner lay and stood staring down on him.
“how old?” he asked, curtly.
“twelve months, next tuesday,” returned the master.
“if he keeps on,” pursued the dryly rasping voice, “you can say you own the greatest collie angus mcgilead has seen in ten years. it’s a privilege to look at such a dog. a privilege. i’m not speaking, mind you, as the collie judge of this show, but as a man who has spent some fifty-odd years in studying the breed. i’ve not seen his like in many a day. i’ll keep my eye on him.”
and he was as good as his word. at every succeeding show to which the master took bruce, he was certain to run into mcgilead, there as a spectator, standing with head on one side, brooding over the physical perfections of bruce. always the little judge was chary of his conversation with the master. but always, he gazed upon bruce as might an inspired artist on some still more inspired painting.
mcgilead had been right in his prophecy as to the collie’s future. not only did bruce “keep on,” but the passing months added new wealth and lustre to his huge coat and new grace and shapeliness to his massive body, 129and a clearer and cleaner set of lines to his classic head.
three more shows, two of them three-point exhibitions and one a single-pointer, brought him seven more points toward the championship. then, on the day of the “collie club of the union’s” annual show, came the crowning triumph.
thirty-two dogs were on hand, precisely the number, under the new rulings, to make it a five-point show. and angus mcgilead was the judge.
when mcgilead gave bruce the winner’s rosette, which marked also his winning of the championship, the pale and shrewd old eyes were misted ever so little, and the hard and thin mouth was set like a gash.
it was as proud a moment in the little judge’s life as in the master’s. america once more had a champion collie—a young dog at that—at which mcgilead could point with inordinate pride, when collie-folk fell to bewailing the decadence of the breed in the linlithgow man’s adopted country.
“i gave him his first winners!” he bragged that night to a coterie of fellow countrymen, in a rare fit of expansiveness. “i gave him his first winners, first time ever he was showed. i said to myself when he swung into the ring that day—under twelve months old, mind you—i said: ‘angus, lad, yon’s a dog!’ i said. ‘watch him, angus!’ i said. ‘for he’s going far, is yon tike,’ i said. and what’s he done? won his championship in five shows. in less’n a year. and i’m the man who gave him the ‘winners’ that got him his championship. watch him! he’s due to last for years longer and to clean up wherever he goes. remember i said so, when you see him going through every bunch he’s shown against. he’s the grandest dog in america to-day, is brucie.”
again was the scotchman’s forecast justified. at such 130few shows, during the next six years, as the master found time to take him to, bruce won prize after prize. age did not seem to lessen his physical perfection. and the years added to the regal dignity that shone about him like an almost visible atmosphere.
watching from the ring-side, or presiding in the ring angus mcgilead thrilled to the dog’s every victory as to the triumph of some loved friend. there was an odd bond between the great dog and the little judge. except for the mistress and the master, the collie felt scant interest in humanity at large. a one-man dog, he received the pettings of outsiders and the handling of judges with lofty coldness.
but, at sight of mcgilead, the plumed tail was at once awag. the deepset eyes would soften and brighten, and the long nose would wrinkle into a most engaging smile. bruce loved to be talked to and petted by angus. he carried his affection for the inordinately tickled judge to the point of trying to shake hands with him or romp with him in the ring; to the outward scandal and inward delight of the sombre scot.
“can’t you keep the beast from acting like he belonged to me, when i’m judging him?” grumpily complained mcgilead, once to the master. “a fine impression it makes, don’t it, on strangers, when they see him come wagging and grinning up to me and wanting to shake hands, or to roll over for me to play with him? one fool asked me, was it my own dog i gave the prize to. he said no outsider’s dog would be making such a fuss over a judge. try to keep him in better order in the ring, or i’ll prove he isn’t mine, by ‘giving him the gate,’ one of these days. see if i don’t.”
but he never did. and the master knew well that he never would. so it was that bruce’s career as a winner 131continued unbrokenly, while other champions came and went.
with dogs, as with horses, youth will be served. by the time a horse is six, his racing days are past; and he has something like twenty years of cart or carriage mediocrity ahead of him. his glory as a track king has fled forever.
and with dogs—whose average life of activity runs little beyond ten years—ring honours usually come in youth or not at all. yes, and they depart with youth. the dog remains handsome and useful for years thereafter. but his head has coarsened. his figure has lost its perfection. his gait stiffens. in a score of ways he drops back from the standard required of winners. younger dogs are put above him. which is life—whether in kennel, or in stable, or in office, or in the courts of love. youth wins.
yet the passing years seemed to take no perceptible toll of bruce. his classic head lost none of its fineness. his body remained limber and graceful and shapely. his coat was mightier than ever. even mcgilead’s apprehensive and super-piercing glance could find no flaw, no sign of oncoming age.
the years had, hitherto, been well-nigh as kind to angus, himself. dry and wiry and small, he had neither shown nor felt the weight of advancing age. yet, now, passing his sixtieth milestone, an attack of rheumatic fever left him oddly heavy and slothful. instead of taking the stairs two at a time, he set a foot on every step. and at the top of any very long flight, he was annoyed to find himself breathing absurdly hard.
he found himself, for the first time in his life, sneering at youth’s gay ebullience, and snubbing the bumptiousness of his growing sons.
132“youth!” he snarled grimly once to the master, as they met at a show. “everything’s for youth, these days. it was a-plenty different when i was young. just as a man begins to get seasoned and to know his way around, folks call him an oldster and fix up a place for him in the chimney corner. youth isn’t the only thing in this world. not by a long sight. take bruce, here, for instance. (yes, i’m talking about you, you big ruffian! give me your paw, now, and listen to me tell how good you are!) take bruce, here, for instance. nearly eight years old. eight in august, isn’t it? as old, that is, as fifty-odd for a human. and look at him! is there one of the young bunch of dogs that can win against him—under any judge that knows his business? not a one of ’em. he’s finer to-day than he was when he came out at his first show. us oldsters can still hold our own, and a little more. bring on your youngsters! me and brucie are ready for ’em all. (hey, big boy? gimme your other paw, like a gentleman! not the left one.) why, first time i set eyes on this dog i said to myself—”
"i’ve got something up at the place that’s due to give bruce the tussle of his life in the show ring some day," bragged the master. “he’s bruce’s own son, and grandson. that means he’s pretty nearly seventy-five per cent. bruce. and he shows it. his kennel name’s ‘jock.’ he’s only eight months now, and he’s the living image of what bruce was at his age. best head i ever saw. great coat, too, and carriage. he’s the best of all bruce’s dozens of pups, by far. i’m going to show him at the ‘charity’ in september.”
“are you, though?” sniffed mcgilead. “it happens i’m judging at the ‘charity.’ (some liars can say i’m beginning to show my age. but i take note they keep on 133wanting me to judge, oftener’n ever.) i’m judging at the ‘charity.’ and i’ll be on the lookout for that wonderful pup of yours. all pups are wonderful, i notice. till they get in the ring. being old bruce’s son, this youngster of yours can’t be altogether bad. i grant that. but i’ll gamble he’ll never be what his dad is.”
"you’ll have the first say-so on that," answered the master. “i’m entering bruce for ‘open, any colour,’ at the ‘charity.’ (by the way, it’s the old fellow’s last show. i’m going to retire him from the game while he’s still good.) little jock is entered for ‘puppy and novice.’ it’s a cinch they’ll come together before you, in ‘winners’!”
“and when they do,” scoffed mcgilead, “don’t feel too bad if bruce gets winners and the pup don’t get a look in. jock may never see a winners’ class. plenty of these promising world-beaters never do. you’re as daft on this ‘youth’ notion as any of ’em. here you’ve got the grandest collie in the states. and you turn your silly back on him and go cracking your jaw about an upstart pup of his that most likely has more flaws than fleas—and a bushel basketful of both. grrh!”
often, during the next three months, angus found his mind dwelling reluctantly upon the newcomer. he was anxious to see the near-paragon. he realised he was all but prejudiced against the youngster by the master’s boastful praise.
then, mcgilead would pull himself up, short. for he prided himself on his four-square honesty and his dearth of prejudice in show-ring matters. this absolute squareness had brought him where he was to-day—to the very foremost place among all dog-show judges. it had kept him respected and had kept his services in constant demand 134for decades, while showier and lesser judges had waxed and waned and had been forgotten.
this honesty of his was mcgilead’s fetish and pride in life. yet, here he was, unsight, unseen, prejudiced against a dog, and that dog his adored bruce’s own son!
mcgilead brought himself together, sharply, cursed himself for an old blackguard, and sought to put the whole matter out of his mind. yet, somehow, he found himself looking forward to the five-point charity show more interestedly than to any such event in years.
it was one of mcgilead’s myriad points of professional ethics never to go near the collie section of any show, until after his share of the judging should be over. thus it was, on the day of the charity show, his first glimpse of jock was when the master led the youngster into the ring, when the puppy class was called.
six other pups also were brought into the ring. mcgilead, as ever, surveyed them with breathless keenness, from between his half-shut eyes—pretending all the while to be talking interestedly with the ring-steward—while the procession filed in through the gate.
but his eyes, once singling out jock, refused to focus on any other entrant. and he set his teeth in a twinge of wonder and admiration for the newcomer. moreover, he observed in him none of the fright, or curiosity, or awkwardness that is the portion of so many puppies on their first entrance to the show-ring. the youngster seemed comfortably at home in the strange surroundings.
nor was this unnatural. the master had made use of a simple ruse that he had employed more than once before. arriving at the show, long before the judging had begun, and while the first spectators were trailing in, he had led jock at once to the ring, where, of course, neither 135the master nor the dog had, technically, any right to be at such a time.
first unleashing jock, the master had let him roam at will for a few minutes around the strange enclosure; then had called the wandering collie over to him, fed him bits of fried liver and lured him into a romp. after which, the master had sat down on the edge of the judging block, calling jock to him, petting and feeding him for a few moments, and then persuading the pup to fall asleep at his feet.
thus, when they re-entered the ring for the judging, jock no longer regarded it as a strange and possibly terrifying abode. to him the ring was now a familiar and friendly place, where he had played and slept and been fed and made much of. all its associations were pleasant in the puppy’s memory. and he was mildly pleased to be there again.
mcgilead’s veiled eyes were studying minutely every motion and every inch of bruce’s young son. and as a dog lover he rejoiced at what he saw. the pup was all the master said and far more. well-nigh as tall and as strong of frame as his sire, jock had bruce’s classic head and wondrous coat; the older dog’s perfect and short-backed body, ear carriage, flawless foreface, true collie expression and grace of action, soundness and build. above all, bruce had transmitted to him that same elusive air of regal dignity and nobility.
“walk your dogs, please!” rasped the judge, starting out of his daze to a realisation that the seven exhibitors were waiting for him to come to earth again.
as, seven years earlier, he had waved bruce aside, that he might not be bothered in his judging of the lesser contestants, so, now, he bade the master take jock into a corner while the parade and the preliminary examining 136went on. the master—this time not worried—obeyed.
and the scene of bruce’s début was re-enacted, both in puppy and in novice classes. not one competitor was worthy of a second’s hesitancy between himself and jock.
then, for the time, the tawny débutante was allowed to go back in peace to his bench; and the other classes were called. when “open, any colour,” came up for judging, this most crucial of all classes had fine representation. four sables, two tri-colours and two merles contested.
yet, in all honesty, not one of the rest could equal old bruce. the great dog stood forth, pre-eminently their superior. and, with the customary little tug of pleasure at his wizened heart, mcgilead awarded to his old favourite the squarely earned blue ribbon.
“the pup’s a wonder,” he told himself. “but the old dog is still the best of the lot. the best of any lot.”
the regular classes were judged; and the best dog in each came into the ring for winners. at last, bruce and jock stood side by side on the judging block. the contest had narrowed down to them.
and now, for the first time, mcgilead was able to concentrate all his attention and his judging prowess on a comparison of the two. for several minutes he eyed them. he made their handlers shift the dogs’ positions. he went over them, like an inspired surgeon, with his sensitive old fingers, though bruce’s body was already as familiar to his touch as is the keyboard to a pianist. he made them “show.” he studied them from fifty angles.
now, to casual observers, angus mcgilead was going through his task with a perfunctory deftness that verged on boredom. the tired, half-shut eyes and the wizened brown face gave no hint of emotion. yet, within the scotchman’s heart, a veritable hell of emotion was surging.
137this prolonged examination was not necessary. he had known it was not necessary from the first instant he had seen the two dogs, sire and son, standing side by side on the block before him. he was dragging out the judging, partly in the vain hope of finding something to make him reverse his first opinion, but chiefly to settle, one way or another, the battle that was waging within him.
for, at once, his acutely practised eye had discerned that jock was the better dog. not that he was better, necessarily, than bruce had been a few years earlier. but hitherto unnoted marks of time on the older dog had sprung into sudden and merciless relief by comparison with the flawless youngster.
seen alone, or with the average opponent, these would not have been noticeable. but alongside of jock, the latter’s perfection brought out every incipient flaw of age in his sire.
all this had been patent to mcgilead at his first critical glance. the younger dog was the better. only a shade the better, thus far, it is true. but by such shades are contests won—and lost.
no outsider—few professional judges—could have recognised the superiority of one of the competitors over the other. yet mcgilead recognised it as clearly as by lightning flare. and he saw his duty—the duty that lay plain before him.
he had given bruce his earliest ring award. he had awarded bruce the prize that gave the dog his championship. and now he must discrown this collie he loved. for the first time he must pass bruce over and give winners to another and younger dog. youth will be served! his heart as sore as an ulcer, his pale and half-shut eyes smarting, the hot and impotent wrath of old age boiling in 138his brain, angus mcgilead continued his meaningless and seemingly bored inspection of the two dogs.
he loved bruce—better than ever before he had realised. he had always felt himself the marvellous collie’s sponsor. and now—
oh, why hadn’t the dog’s fool of an owner had sense enough to retire him from the ring before this inevitable downfall had come; this fate that lies craftily in wait for dog and horse and man who stay in the game too long?
the master had said this was to be the old dog’s last show. his last show! and he must leave the ring—-beaten! beaten by a youngster, at that! a pup who had years and years of triumphs ahead of him. surely the smugly perfect little tike could have waited till his sire’s retirement, before beginning his own career of conquest! he needn’t have started out by annexing dear old bruce’s scalp and by smashing the old dog’s long record of victories!
bruce! glorious old brucie, whose progress had been mcgilead’s own life-monument! to slink out of the ring—at his very last show, too—defeated by a puppy! oh, this rotten cult of youth—youth—youth! he and bruce were both back numbers at last.
but were they?
bruce, bored by the long wait, nudged the scotchman’s inert fist with his cold nose, and sought to shake hands. this diversion brought the judge back to earth.
a gust of red rage set mcgilead’s blood to swirling. on fierce impulse he straightened his bent figure and unveiled his sleepy-looking eyes in a glare of fury.
he laid both hands on the head of the gallant old dog whom he idolised.
“bruce wins!” he proclaimed, his rasping voice as harsh as a file on rusty iron. “bruce wins!”
139wheeling on the master, he croaked, in that same strained, rasping shout, the scrap of a schooldays’ quotation which had come often to his memory of late.
“‘it’s safer playing with the lion’s whelp than with the old lion dying!’” he mouthed. “bruce wins! retire him, now! ‘youth will be served.’ but not till us oldsters are out of the way. clear the ring!”
as he stamped from the enclosure he was buttonholed by a sporty-looking man whom he had met at many a show.
“mr. mcgilead,” began the man, respectfully, “the collie club of the union has appointed me a committee of one to engage you for judge at our annual show in november. some of the members suggested a younger man. but the old guard held out for you. i was going to write, but—”
“it’d have done you no good!” growled mcgilead, sick with shame. “let me alone!”
“if it’s a question of price—” urged the puzzled man.
“price?” snarled mcgilead, turning on him in senile fury. “price? there’s only one price. and i’ve paid it. i won’t judge at your show! i’ll never judge again at any show! my judging days are over! i’m a dead one! i’m an old, old man, i tell you! i’m in my dotage! i—why, i couldn’t even trust myself, any more, to judge squarely. i’m through!”
