She rose to her feet. He did not move, but lay there looking up at her humbly, wonderingly. She stood above him a moment and still he did not move. "Time's up!" said one of the men tensely. She nodded to show she had heard. It was as if she might break the spell if she spoke. The man led the pony to her. With no haste, now, she got into the saddle. "Heel!" she commanded. The pointer rose and looked up at her. "Heel!" she repeated. When she rode out of the woods, across the sunlit fields toward the judges, at her pony's heels trotted the pointer, obedient now, as if he had left behind him, in that patch of woods, his wild heritage. No man or woman who saw the work of Arnold's Drake the rest of that morning can ever forget it. Fast as ever, yet he kept the course. Bold, independent, aggressive, yet at every shrill whistle he turned, and according to the wave of her handkerchief went to right or left. Ten coveys of birds, in the hour and a half that remained to him, he found. From terrific speed men saw him flash ten times into the statuesque immobility of a point. They forgot even so steady and painstaking a fellow as Count Redstone. It was the pointer who captured their imaginations. On Saturday night, while the crowd was at supper, the decision of the judges, who always stopped at Freedom Hill, was telephoned in. And the decision showed them to be dog men, not martinets--men who can overlook a grievous fault in the face of a magnificent accomplishment and a future full of promise. A veteran reporter took the message, then stood in the dining-room door a moment, his eyes twinkling at the faces turned his way. "Champion," he said, and paused a moment, "Champion, Arnold's Drake." But when the girl declared she must telegraph her father, old Burton pushed through the crowd about her. "I'll attend to that," he said. He saw the quick friendliness in her upraised eyes. Had he not shown faith throughout in her dog? Out in the hall he spoke to the men: "Telephone Ferris," he said. "He's stopping with the postmaster. Tell him to come at once." In his own room he got out his stationery and pen and wrote, quickly, in a bold hand that dashed across the sheet. But the excitement of it must have told on him, for he dated the letter two days back, on Thursday. When the door opened he looked up. There was Ferris, his face jubilant. Behind Ferris was the girl. At sight of her old Burton did a funny thing. He put his hand over the letter he had been writing. "I just wanted to be sure," she said--"Dad, you know." "I'll attend to that," he said impatiently. After she was gone he hastily addressed the letter.