“Youth!” he snarled grimly once to the Master, as they met at a show. “Everything’s for youth, these days. It was a-plenty different when I was young. Just as a man begins to get seasoned and to know his way around, folks call him an oldster and fix up a place for him in the chimney corner. Youth isn’t the only thing in this world. Not by a long sight. Take Bruce, here, for instance. (Yes, I’m talking about you, you big ruffian! Give me your paw, now, and listen to me tell how good you are!) Take Bruce, here, for instance. Nearly eight years old. Eight in August, isn’t it? As old, that is, as fifty-odd for a human. And look at him! Is there one of the young bunch of dogs that can win against him—under any judge that knows his business? Not a one of ’em. He’s finer to-day than he was when he came out at his first show. Us oldsters can still hold our own, and a little more. Bring on your youngsters! Me and Brucie are ready for ’em all. (Hey, Big Boy? Gimme your other paw, like a gentleman! Not the left one.) Why, first time I set eyes on this dog I said to myself—” "I’ve got something up at The Place that’s due to give Bruce the tussle of his life in the show ring some day," bragged the Master. “He’s Bruce’s own son, and grandson. That means he’s pretty nearly seventy-five per cent. Bruce. And he shows it. His kennel name’s ‘Jock.’ He’s only eight months now, and he’s the living image of what Bruce was at his age. Best head I ever saw. Great coat, too, and carriage. He’s the best of all Bruce’s dozens of pups, by far. I’m going to show him at the ‘Charity’ in September.” “Are you, though?” sniffed McGilead. “It happens I’m judging at the ‘Charity.’ (Some liars can say I’m beginning to show my age. But I take note they keep on wanting me to judge, oftener’n ever.) I’m judging at the ‘Charity.’ And I’ll be on the lookout for that wonderful pup of yours. All pups are wonderful, I notice. Till they get in the ring. Being old Bruce’s son, this youngster of yours can’t be altogether bad. I grant that. But I’ll gamble he’ll never be what his Dad is.” "You’ll have the first say-so on that," answered the Master. “I’m entering Bruce for ‘Open, Any Colour,’ at the ‘Charity.’ (By the way, it’s the old fellow’s last show. I’m going to retire him from the game while he’s still good.) Little Jock is entered for ‘Puppy and Novice.’ It’s a cinch they’ll come together before you, in ‘winners’!” “And when they do,” scoffed McGilead, “don’t feel too bad if Bruce gets winners and the pup don’t get a look in. Jock may never see a winners’ class. Plenty of these promising world-beaters never do. You’re as daft on this ‘youth’ notion as any of ’em. Here you’ve got the grandest collie in the States. And you turn your silly back on him and go cracking your jaw about an upstart pup of his that most likely has more flaws than fleas—and a bushel basketful of both. Grrh!”