A minute later, the three pups reappeared at the end of the
section. And behind them came the attendant, intoning:

"Novice Class, Male Scotch Collies! Numbers 64, 65, 66, 67."

There was an absurd throbbing in Link Ferris's meridian. His
calloused hands shook as he unchained Chum and motioned him to
leap from the bench to the ground.

Chum obeyed, but with evident uneasiness. His odd surroundings
were getting on the collie's nerves. Link bent over him, under
pretense of giving him a farewell rub with the brush.

"It's all right, Chummie!" he crooned soothingly. "It's all
RIGHT! I'm here. An' nobody's goin' to bother you none. You're
a-helpin' me win that hundred. An' you're lettin' these
gold-shirt folks see what a clam' gorgeous dawg you be! Come
along, ol' friend!"

Under the comfort of his god's voice, Chum's nervousness fled.
Safe in his sublime trust that his master would let no harm
befall him, the collie trotted toward the ring at Ferris's heels.

Three other novice dogs were already in the ring when Link
arrived at the narrow opening. The steward was sitting at the
table as before. At the corner of the ring, alongside the
platform, stood a man in tweeds, unlighted pipe in mouth,
half-shut shrewd eyes studying the dogs as they filed in through
the gap in the ropes. The inscrutable eyes flickered ever so