"Close the door, Ferris," he said. "You know the postmaster well, don't you? You've known him for years. Well, tell him he won't get into any trouble over this. Tell him it's often done. Tell him if he does get into trouble, I'll make it all right. Tell him he'll be glad he got into it. Tell him to stamp this letter two days back--January 27th--and mail it to-night. Send a telegram signed 'Jessie' to old Arnold, saying his dog--his dog, mind you--is National Champion. Hurry now!" Late the next afternoon a crippled dog handler tore open a letter. It had come on the same train with his daughter and with the National Champion, who now lay before the fire. As his master opened the letter this champion looked up, and tapped the floor with his tail. Beside her father stood Jessie, amazed at what she saw in the letter. Thursday morning, January 27. DEAR SIR: I have just seen your dog work out in a preliminary test. He's a far worse bolter than even you had led me to believe. According to your representation, your daughter could handle him. I find her absolutely incapable of doing so. Under the circumstances I feel justified in cancelling our agreement. Yours truly, WILLIAM BURTON. "The old quitter!" cried Arnold, his eyes blazing. "God knows I'm glad to get my dog. Three thousand couldn't get him now. But who would have thought----" And eyes still blazing with anger and joy and excitement, he told the girl at his side the bargain they had made, right in this room. For a moment she was silent, with staring eyes; then she cried out: "Dad--Dad--he wrote the letter that night--after Drake was made champion. I know--I saw him doing it. He tried to hide it.... I know!" On the train that very night, in the stateroom, Ferris spoke to his boss. "I know a man, sir, who owns a dog I believe will win next year." In the deep-set eyes came a twinkle that lit them up like tiny electrics. "Has the man a broken leg and a daughter?" "No, sir." "Then buy the dog, Ferris." IV OLD FRANK SEES IT THROUGH It was with grave misgiving that old Frank, Irish setter, followed little Tommy Earle out of the precincts of the big shaded yard and into the hot field of rustling corn, twice as tall as they. That this morning of all mornings the boy belonged back there in the yard he knew well enough, but all his efforts to keep him there had failed. He had tried to divert his mind. He had loitered behind. He had glanced back wistfully at the big white house, hoping in the absence of the boy's father and mother to attract the attention of old Aunt Cindy the cook to the fact that Tommy was running away.