leash. And any of several cryptic words, relating to hypothetical
rats, and so forth, were quite enough to send up his ears.

It was sheer excitement that brought Link broad awake before
sunrise on that day of days. Ferris was infected with the most
virulent form of that weird malady known as "dog-showitis." At
first he had been tempted solely by the hope of winning the
hundred-dollar prize. But latterly the urge of victory had gotten
into his blood. And he yearned, too, to let the world see what a
marvelous dog was his.

He hurried through the morning chores, then dressed himself in
his shabby best and hitched his horse to the antiquated Concord
buggy--a vehicle he had been washing for the state occasion
almost as vehemently as he had scrubbed Chum.

After a gobbled breakfast, Ferris mounted to the seat of the aged
buggy, signaled Chum to leap to the battered cushion at his side
and set off for Craigswold. Long before ten o'clock his horse was
safely stabled at the Craigswold livery, and Ferris was leading
Chum proudly through the wicket gate leading into the
country-club grounds.

All happened as the postmaster had foretold. The clerk at the
wicket asked him his name, fumbled through a ledger and a pile of
envelopes and presently handed Ferris a numbered tag.

"Sixty-five," read the clerk for Link's benefit. "That's down at
the extreme right. Almost the last bench to the right."