Part 9 (1/2)

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.