"Compared with what’s the matter with _you_," drawled McGilead, unruffled, “there’s nothing at all the matter with him. Didn’t anybody ever tell you how unsportsmanlike it is to argue a judge’s decision in the ring? It’s against the A.K.C. rules, too. I’m always glad, later, to explain my rulings to any one who asks me civilly. Since you want to know what’s the matter with your dog, I’ll tell you. He has spaniel ears. Fault number one. He is cow-hocked. Fault number two. He is apple-domed, and he’s cheeky and he has a snipe-nose. Faults three, four and five. He’s long-bodied and swaybacked and over-shot and his undercoat is as thin as your own sportsmanship. He carries his tail high over his back, too. And his outer coat is almost curly. Those are all the faults I can see about him just now. He’ll never win anything in any A.K.C. show. It’s only fair to tell you that; to save you further money and to save you from another such dirty breach of sportsmanship. That’s all.” The Master, covertly petting Bruce and telling him in a whisper what a grand dog he was, waited at an end of the ring for the next class—"the novice"—to be called. Here the competition was somewhat keener. Yet the result was the same. And Bruce found himself with another dark blue ribbon in token of his second victory. Then, when the winning dogs of every class were brought into the ring for "Winners"—to decide on the best male collie,—Bruce received the winner’s rosette, and found himself advanced three points on his fifteen-point journey toward the championship. When the collie judging was over and the Master sat on the bench edge, petting his victorious dog, Angus McGilead strolled over to where the winner lay and stood staring down on him. “How old?” he asked, curtly. “Twelve months, next Tuesday,” returned the Master. “If he keeps on,” pursued the dryly rasping voice, “you can say you own the greatest collie Angus McGilead has seen in ten years. It’s a privilege to look at such a dog. A privilege. I’m not speaking, mind you, as the collie judge of this show, but as a man who has spent some fifty-odd years in studying the breed. I’ve not seen his like in many a day. I’ll keep my eye on him.” And he was as good as his word. At every succeeding show to which the Master took Bruce, he was certain to run into McGilead, there as a spectator, standing with head on one side, brooding over the physical perfections of Bruce. Always the little judge was chary of his conversation with the Master. But always, he gazed upon Bruce as might an inspired artist on some still more inspired painting. McGilead had been right in his prophecy as to the collie’s future. Not only did Bruce “keep on,” but the passing months added new wealth and lustre to his huge coat and new grace and shapeliness to his massive body, and a clearer and cleaner set of lines to his classic head.