climax of excellence in summer. This was the lot of both Lad and
the paler-hued dog.

"Lochaber King," read the Master, from his catalog. "H'm! That's
Colonel Osbourne's greatest pup. Remember, we saw him at
Westminster? It's nip-and-tuck, between him and Lad; with a
little in this dog's favor. Tough luck!"

"Oh, this has been just one of those days nobody wants!" mourned
the Mistress. "First, our forgetting to bring along Laddie's
suitcase, though I could have sworn I saw you lift it
aboard,--and then the judge not being here; and now this horrid
collie with his wonderful coat! What next, I wonder?"

Like a well-staged bit of mechanism, the reply to her rhetorical
question came down to her from heaven. It came in the shape of a
thunder-roll that began far off and reverberated from mountain to
mountain; then muttered itself into silence in the more distant
hills. The Mistress, like everyone else, looked skyward.

The hazy blue of the summer noon was paling to dirty gray and
black. Up from the Hudson, a fast-mounting array of dun and
flame-shot clouds were butting their bullying way. No
weather-prophet was needed to tell these hillcountry folk that
they were in for a thunderstorm;--and for what one kennel-man
described as "a reg'lar ol' he-one," at that.

Now, under right conditions, an open-air dogshow is a thing of
beauty and of joy. At such places as Tuxedo and one or two others
it is a sight to be remembered. But in rainy weather,--especially