"Two more entrants were killed out by _that_ clause," remarked the Superintendent, "leaving only three out of the original sixteen. Now go ahead with the clause that puts poor old Lad and one other out of the running. I'm sorry." "'_Third_,'" the Mistress read, her brows crinkling and her voice trailing as she proceeded. "'_Each contestant must go successfully through the preliminary maneuvers prescribed by the Kirkaldie Association, Inc., of Great Britain, for its Working Sheepdog Trials._'--But," she protested, "Lad isn't a 'working' sheepdog! Why, this is some kind of a joke! I never heard of such a thing--even in a Specialty Show." "No," agreed the Superintendent, "nor anybody else. Naturally, Lad isn't a 'working' sheepdog. There probably haven't been three 'working' sheepdogs born within a hundred miles of here, and it's a mighty safe bet that no 'working' sheepdog has ever taken a 'Blue' at an A. K. C. Show. A 'working' dog is almost never a show dog. I know of only one either here or in England; and he's a freak--a miracle. So much so, that he's famous all over the dog-world." "Do you mean Champion Lochinvar III?" asked the Mistress. "The dog the Duke of Hereford used to own?" "That's the dog. The only----" "We read about him in the _Collie Folio_," said the Mistress. "His picture was there, too. He was sent to Scotland when he was a puppy, the _Folio_ said, and trained to herd sheep before ever he was shown. His owner was trying to induce other collie-fanciers to make their dogs useful and not just Show-exhibits. Lochinvar is an international champion, too, isn't he?" The Superintendent nodded. "If the Duke of Hereford lived in New Jersey," pursued the Mistress, trying to talk down her keen chagrin over Lad's mishap, "Lochinvar might have a chance to win a nice Gold Hat." "He has," replied the superintendent. "He has every chance, and the only chance." "_Who_ has?" queried the puzzled Mistress. "Champion Lochinvar III," was the answer. "Glure bought him by cable. Paid $7000 for him. That eclipses Untermeyer's record price of $6500 for old Squire of Tytton. The dog arrived last week. He's here. A big Blue Merle. You ought to look him over. He's a wonder. He----" "_Oh!_" exploded the Mistress. "You can't mean it. You _can't!_ Why, it's the most--the most hideously unsportsmanlike thing I ever heard of in my life! Do you mean to tell me Mr. Glure put up this sixteen hundred-dollar cup and then sent for the only dog that could fulfill the Trophy's conditions? It's unbelievable!" "It's Glure," tersely replied the Superintendent. "Which perhaps comes to the same thing."