ring.

"Anyhow," whispered the Mistress as the Master led his stolidly
gigantic entry toward the enclosure, "Bruce can't get worse than
a third-prize yellow ribbon. We ought to be a little proud of
that. There are only three entries in his class."

But even that bit of barren pride was denied the awkward
youngster's sponsor. As the three pups entered the enclosure, the
judge's half-shut eyes rested on Bruce--at first idly, then in
real amazement. Crossing to the Master, before giving the signal
for the first maneuvers, he said in tired disgust--

"Please take your measly St. Bernard monstrosity out of the ring.
This is a class for collies, not for freaks. I refuse to judge
that pup as a collie."

"He's a thoroughbred," crossly protested the Master. "I have his
certified pedigree. There's no better blood in--"

"I don't care what his ancestors were," snapped the judge. "He's
a throw-back to the dinosaur or the Great Auk. And I won't judge
him as a collie. Take him out of the ring. You're delaying the
others."

A judge's decision is final. Red with angry shame and suppressing
an unworthy desire to kick the luckless Bruce, the Master led the
pup back to his allotted bench. Bruce trotted cheerily along with
a maddening air of having done something to be proud of. Deaf to
the Mistress's sympathy and to her timidly voiced protests, the