"If that's so," said "Scotty," "I think I shall have to take a look at
those Golconda wonders before the winter fairly sets in; and maybe you
can give me a few pointers."

For a mile or so the boy sat spellbound, drinking in the casual comments
of "Scotty" upon the dogs in the team, as if they were pearls of wisdom
dropping from the lips of an Oracle. He was not so much interested in
the Woman's replies, for they displayed a lack of technical information
that contrasted unfavorably in the boy's mind with the keen and accurate
insight that Allan showed in every word on that most vital subject.

Vaguely the boy remembered having once heard that she had become a
partner in the racing team for mere amusement of the sport, instead of
from a serious, high-minded interest, and that of course did not entitle
her to the same respect you could feel for one to whom the care and
culture of the dog assumed the dignity of a vocation. Then, too, she had
spoken slightingly of Baldy's legs. As a human being he could not but
respond to her friendly overtures, but as a dog fancier she held no
place in his esteem.

As they approached the divide where the trail for Golconda branched from
the main road, an idea suddenly came to the boy. He had watched the
harmony between Allan and his dogs; had noted their willingness, their
affection for "Scotty," and his consideration for them. And as the pace
became slower, and he realized that they were nearly at the end of this
fate-given interview, he tremblingly gasped out the question that had
been seething through his mind with such persistence. "Mr. Allan, would
you like to buy Baldy?"