The Master talked of buying a whalebone-and-steel-and-snow bull
terrier, or a more formidable if more greedy Great Dane. But the
Mistress wanted a collie. So they compromised by getting the
collie.

He reached the Place in a crampy and smelly crate; preceded by a
long envelope containing an intricate and imposing pedigree. The
burglary-preventing problem seemed solved.

But when the crate was opened and its occupant stepped gravely
forth, on the Place's veranda, the problem was revived.

All the Master and the Mistress had known about the
newcomer,--apart from his price and lofty lineage,--was that his
breeder had named him "Lad."

From these meager facts they had somehow built up a picture of a
huge and grimly ferocious animal that should be a terror to all
intruders and that might in time be induced to make friends with
the Place's vouched-for occupants. In view of this, they had had
a stout kennel made and to it they had affixed with double
staples a chain strong enough to restrain a bull.

(It may as well be said here that never in all the sixteen years
of his beautiful life did Lad occupy that or any other kennel nor
wear that or any other chain.)

Even the crate which brought the new dog to the Place failed
somehow to destroy the illusion of size and fierceness. But, the