Master scrawled on an envelope-back the words "For Sale. Name
Your Own Price," and pinned it on the edge of the bench.

"Here endeth the first lesson in collie-raising, so far as The
Place is concerned," he decreed, stalking back to the ringside to
watch the rest of the judging.

The Mistress lingered behind, to bestow a furtive consolatory pat
upon the disqualified Bruce. Then she joined her husband beside
the ring.

It was probably by accident that her skirt brushed sharply
against the bench-edge as she went--knocking the "For Sale" sign
down into the litter of straw below.

But a well-meaning fellow-exhibitor, across the aisle, saw the
bit of paper flutter floorward. This good soul rescued it from
the straw and pinned it back in place.

(The world is full of helpful folk. That is perhaps one reason
why the Millennium's date is still so indefinite.)

An hour later, a man touched the Master on the arm.

"That dog of yours, on Bench 48," began the stranger, "the big pup
with the 'For Sale' sign on his bench. What do you want for him?"

The Mistress was several feet away, talking to the superintendent
of the show. Guiltily, yet gratefully, the Master led the would-
be purchaser back to the benches, without attracting his wife's