Ten coveys of birds, in the hour and a half that remained to him, he found. From terrific speed men saw him flash ten times into the statuesque immobility of a point. They forgot even so steady and painstaking a fellow as Count Redstone. It was the pointer who captured their imaginations.

On Sat.u.r.day night, while the crowd was at supper, the decision of the judges, who always stopped at Freedom Hill, was telephoned in. And the decision showed them to be dog men, not martinets--men who can overlook a grievous fault in the face of a magnificent accomplishment and a future full of promise.

A veteran reporter took the message, then stood in the dining-room door a moment, his eyes twinkling at the faces turned his way.

"Champion," he said, and paused a moment, "Champion, Arnold's Drake."

But when the girl declared she must telegraph her father, old Burton pushed through the crowd about her.

"I'll attend to that," he said.

He saw the quick friendliness in her upraised eyes. Had he not shown faith throughout in her dog?

Out in the hall he spoke to the men: "Telephone Ferris," he said. "He's stopping with the postmaster. Tell him to come at once."

In his own room he got out his stationery and pen and wrote, quickly, in a bold hand that dashed across the sheet. But the excitement of it must have told on him, for he dated the letter two days back, on Thursday.

When the door opened he looked up. There was Ferris, his face jubilant.

Behind Ferris was the girl. At sight of her old Burton did a funny thing. He put his hand over the letter he had been writing.

"I just wanted to be sure," she said--"Dad, you know."

"I'll attend to that," he said impatiently.

After she was gone he hastily addressed the letter.

"Close the door, Ferris," he said. "You know the postmaster well, don't you? You've known him for years. Well, tell him he won't get into any trouble over this. Tell him it's often done. Tell him if he does get into trouble, I'll make it all right. Tell him he'll be glad he got into it. Tell him to stamp this letter two days back--January 27th--and mail it to-night. Send a telegram signed 'Jessie' to old Arnold, saying his dog--his dog, mind you--is National Champion. Hurry now!"

Late the next afternoon a crippled dog handler tore open a letter. It had come on the same train with his daughter and with the National Champion, who now lay before the fire. As his master opened the letter this champion looked up, and tapped the floor with his tail.

Beside her father stood Jessie, amazed at what she saw in the letter.

Thursday morning, January 27.

DEAR SIR:

I have just seen your dog work out in a preliminary test. He's a far worse bolter than even you had led me to believe. According to your representation, your daughter could handle him. I find her absolutely incapable of doing so. Under the circ.u.mstances I feel justified in cancelling our agreement. Yours truly,

WILLIAM BURTON.

"The old quitter!" cried Arnold, his eyes blazing. "G.o.d knows I'm glad to get my dog. Three thousand couldn't get him now. But who would have thought----"

And eyes still blazing with anger and joy and excitement, he told the girl at his side the bargain they had made, right in this room.

For a moment she was silent, with staring eyes; then she cried out:

"Dad--Dad--he wrote the letter that night--after Drake was made champion. I know--I saw him doing it. He tried to hide it.... I know!"

On the train that very night, in the stateroom, Ferris spoke to his boss.

"I know a man, sir, who owns a dog I believe will win next year."

In the deep-set eyes came a twinkle that lit them up like tiny electrics.

"Has the man a broken leg and a daughter?"

"No, sir."

"Then buy the dog, Ferris."

IV

OLD FRANK SEES IT THROUGH

It was with grave misgiving that old Frank, Irish setter, followed little Tommy Earle out of the precincts of the big shaded yard and into the hot field of rustling corn, twice as tall as they. That this morning of all mornings the boy belonged back there in the yard he knew well enough, but all his efforts to keep him there had failed. He had tried to divert his mind. He had loitered behind. He had glanced back wistfully at the big white house, hoping in the absence of the boy's father and mother to attract the attention of old Aunt Cindy the cook to the fact that Tommy was running away.

But old Aunt Cindy was nowhere to be seen. There was no one to catch his signals of distress. There was no one to see Tommy enter the corn. And no one knew what he knew--that strangers were camped down there in his master's woods. As for him, he had smelled them the night before after everybody was asleep. He had barked a while in their general direction, then gone down there to investigate. They had not seen him, for he had kept out of sight. There had been two men and a woman sitting by a small fire, an old car in the background. He had not liked their looks.

And that wasn't all. Not long ago he had seen one of the men, half hidden in the cornfield, looking toward the house. The man had stood there while Steve Earle, the boy's father, drove off in the car. He had stood there while Marian Earle, the boy's mother, went off across the orchard in another direction with a basket of fruit for a neighbour. He had stood there until Frank, left alone with the boy, had started toward the cornfield, tail erect, eyes fierce. Then the man had turned hurriedly and entered the woods.

But the man was still down there. So were those other people. Frank's nose told him that. Therefore his eyes were deep with trouble and he followed close at the boy's heels. Tommy's objective he knew well enough. A few days before Steve Earle had brought them both through this very corn, into the woods, to the creek. The father had pointed out to the boy the silvery fish darting here and there in a deep-shaded pool.

It had made a great impression. Tommy was going to see those fish now.

That Frank knew.

And he sympathized with the impulse, so far as that was concerned. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances, he was not averse to looking at fish himself.

But now, with every step the boy took his anxiety increased. For it was beside the pool that the strangers were camped. And it was straight in their direction that little Tommy in his ignorance was headed.

The morning sun blazed down through the thin obstacle of the tall corn.

It flashed on the white-and-striped shirt and trousers and on the turn-down straw hat with the blue-ribbon band. In the deep-furrowed rows dust puffed up from under the hurrying little sandalled feet. Intent on seeing those darting silvery fish in that deep-shaded pool, Tommy did not once turn to look into the troubled eyes close behind him.

Within sight of the woods Frank made his last attempt. He stopped and sat down firmly on his haunches. Then the boy turned, his face flushed under the white hat.

"Come on, F'ank!" he said impatiently.

A gust of dry summer wind swept across the field and rattled the blades of corn and tossed up the silvery side of the leaves in the forest.

The boy grew angry. "Come on, F'ank!" he cried.

Panting hard, saliva dripping into the dust of the corn row, Frank sat where he was and looked everywhere but at the boy in the dignity of his determination.

"Sit there, then!" said Tommy. "I'm goin'!"

He went; and Frank went, too; for obedience, even against his judgment, is the penalty a dog has to pay who loves a boy--and will die for him if need be.