Into the hallowed precinct Link piloted the much-interested Chum.
There he paused for a dazzled instant. The putting green and the
fore-lawn in front of the field-stone clubhouse had been covered
with a mass of wooden alleyways, each lined with a double row of
stalls about two feet from the ground, carpeted with straw and
having individual zinc water troughs in front of them. In nearly
every one of these "benches" was tied a dog.

There were more dogs than Link Ferris had seen before in all his
quasi-dogless life. And all of them seemed to be barking or
yelping. The din was egregious. Along the alleyways, men and
women in sport clothes were drifting, in survey of the chained
exhibits. In a central space among the lines of benches was a
large square enclosure, roped off except for one aperture. In the
middle of this space, which Link rightly guessed to be the
judging ring, stood a very low wooden platform. At one side of
the ring were a chair and a table, where sat a steward in a Palm
Beach suit, fussily turning over the leaves of a ledger and
assorting a heap of high-packed and vari-colored ribbons.

Link, mindful of instructions, bore to the right in search of a
stall labeled "65." As he went, he noted that the dogs were
benched in such a way that each breed had a section to itself.
Thus, while he was still some distance away from his designated
bench, he saw that he was coming into a section of dogs which, in
general aspect, resembled Chum. Above this aggregation, as over
others, hung a lettered sign. And this especial sign read "Collie
Section."

So Chum was a "collie"--whatever that might be. Link took it to