"The answer," said the Master, "is that your boss is mistaken.
I've had Rothsay Princess for the past six months. And she's the
last dog I'll ever get from the Rothsay Kennels. I was stung,
good and plenty, on that deal.

"My wife wanted to keep her, or I'd have made a kick in the
courts for having to pay two hundred dollars for a cheeky,
apple-domed, prick eared--"

"Prick-eared!" exclaimed the foreman, aghast at the volleyed
sacrilege. "Rothsay Princess has the best ears of any pup we've
bred since Champion Rothsay Chief. Not a flaw in that pup. She--"

"Not a flaw, hey!" sniffed the Master. "Come down to the kennel
and take a look at her. She has as many flaws as a street-cur has
fleas."

He led the way to the kennel. At sight of the stranger Lass
growled and showed her teeth. For a collie mother will let nobody
but proven friends come near to her newborn brood.

The foreman stared at the hostile young mother for a half-minute,
whistling bewilderedly between his teeth. Then he laughed aloud.

"That's no more Rothsay Princess than I am!" he declared. "I know
who she IS, though. I'd remember that funny mask among a million.
That's Rothsay Lass! Though how she got HERE--!

"We couldn't have shipped her by mistake, either," he went on,