is, what is it?"

"The Winner's Class," says the gentleman "Hurry, please. The Judge is
waiting for him."

Nolan tries to get me off the chain onto a showing leash, but he
shakes so, he only chokes me. "What is it, Miss?" he says. "What is
it?"

"The Winner's Class," says Miss Dorothy. "The Judge wants him with
the winners of the other classes--to decide which is the best. It's
only a form," says she. "He has the champions against him now."

"Yes," says the gentleman, as he hurries us to the ring. "I'm afraid
it's only a form for your dog, but the Judge wants all the winners,
puppy class even."

We had got to the gate, and the gentleman there was writing down my
number.

"Who won the open?" asks Miss Dorothy.

"Oh, who would?" laughs the gentleman. "The old champion, of course.
He's won for three years now. There he is. Isn't he wonderful?" says
he, and he points to a dog that's standing proud and haughty on the
platform in the middle of the ring.

I never see so beautiful a dog, so fine and clean and noble, so white
like he had rolled hisself in flour, holding his nose up and his eyes
shut, same as though no one was worth looking at. Aside of him, we