Out through the doorway, and onto the veranda, strolled Colonel
Osbourne, owner of the Lochaber Collie Kennels. With him walked
the Mistress and the Master.

At the Mistress's side paced Lad.

"It was so careless of us to leave the suitcase at home!" the
Mistress was saying. "I don't know how we could have groomed him,
Colonel, if you hadn't come to our rescue by turning that kit
bag's heaven-sent contents over to us. Besides, it gave us the
excuse to bring Laddie up into the house; instead of leaving him
all alone in that black stall. He hates thunderstorms, and--"

A yell, from somewhere, interrupted her. The yell was caught up.
It merged into a multiple roar of inextinguishable laughter. The
Mistress saw a hundred faces all turned in one direction, The
faces were convulsed with mirth. A hundred derisively wondering
fingers were pointing. She ran to the veranda rail and looked
down.

Across the patch of greensward, from the stables, a man and a dog
were advancing. The man was shaking his fist at the world at
large and fairly dancing with rage.

But it was the dog, and not he, that caused the Homeric gusts of
merriment and the gobbling chorus of amazed questions. The dog
was a collie; noble of aspect, massive of coat.

But that same coat vied with the setting sun in garish brilliancy