Thus, when they re-entered the ring for the judging, Jock no longer regarded it as a strange and possibly terrifying abode. To him the ring was now a familiar and friendly place, where he had played and slept and been fed and made much of. All its associations were pleasant in the puppy’s memory. And he was mildly pleased to be there again. McGilead’s veiled eyes were studying minutely every motion and every inch of Bruce’s young son. And as a dog lover he rejoiced at what he saw. The pup was all the Master said and far more. Well-nigh as tall and as strong of frame as his sire, Jock had Bruce’s classic head and wondrous coat; the older dog’s perfect and short-backed body, ear carriage, flawless foreface, true collie expression and grace of action, soundness and build. Above all, Bruce had transmitted to him that same elusive air of regal dignity and nobility. “Walk your dogs, please!” rasped the judge, starting out of his daze to a realisation that the seven exhibitors were waiting for him to come to earth again. As, seven years earlier, he had waved Bruce aside, that he might not be bothered in his judging of the lesser contestants, so, now, he bade the Master take Jock into a corner while the parade and the preliminary examining went on. The Master—this time not worried—obeyed. And the scene of Bruce’s début was re-enacted, both in puppy and in novice classes. Not one competitor was worthy of a second’s hesitancy between himself and Jock. Then, for the time, the tawny débutante was allowed to go back in peace to his bench; and the other classes were called. When “Open, Any Colour,” came up for judging, this most crucial of all classes had fine representation. Four sables, two tri-colours and two merles contested. Yet, in all honesty, not one of the rest could equal old Bruce. The great dog stood forth, pre-eminently their superior. And, with the customary little tug of pleasure at his wizened heart, McGilead awarded to his old favourite the squarely earned blue ribbon. “The pup’s a wonder,” he told himself. “But the old dog is still the best of the lot. The best of _any_ lot.” The regular classes were judged; and the best dog in each came into the ring for winners. At last, Bruce and Jock stood side by side on the judging block. The contest had narrowed down to them. And now, for the first time, McGilead was able to concentrate all his attention and his judging prowess on a comparison of the two. For several minutes he eyed them. He made their handlers shift the dogs’ positions. He went over them, like an inspired surgeon, with his sensitive old fingers, though Bruce’s body was already as familiar to his touch as is the keyboard to a pianist. He made them “show.” He studied them from fifty angles.