729: _Lochinvar Kennels. CHAMPION LOCHINVAR KING. Lochinvar Peerless—Lochinvar Queen_ Followed the birth date and the words “Breeder owner.” Jamie Mackellar’s pale eyes opened yet wider and he stared on the collie with tenfold interest; an interest which held in it a splash of reverence. Jamie was a faithful reader of the dog press. And for the past two years Champion Lochinvar King’s many pictures and infinitely more victories had stirred his admiration. He knew the dog, as a million Americans know Man-o’-War. Now eagerly he scanned the wonder collie. Every detail,—from the level mouth and chiselled, wedge-shaped head and stern eyes with their true “look of eagles,” to the fox brush tail with its sidewise swirl at the tip—Jamie scanned with the delight of an artist who comes for the first time on a Velasquez of which he has read and dreamed. Never in his dog-starred life had the little man beheld so perfect a collie. It was an education to him to study such a marvel. Two more men came up to the bench. One was wearing a linen duster; and fell to grooming King’s incredibly massive coat with expert hands. The other—a plump giant in exaggeratedly vivid clothes—chirped to the dog and ran careless fingers over the silken head. The collie waved his plumed tail in response to the caress. Recalling how coldly King had ignored his own friendly advances, Jamie Mackellar addressed the plump man in deep respect. “Excuse me, sir,” said he humbly, “but might you be Mr. Frayne—Mr. Lucius Frayne?” The man turned with insolent laziness, eyed the shabby little figure from head to foot, and nodded. Then he went back to his inspection of King. Not to be rebuffed, Mackellar continued: “I remember reading about you when you started the Lochinvar Kennels, sir. That’ll be—let’s see—that’ll be the best part of eight years ago. And three years back you showed Lochinvar Peerless out here—this great feller’s sire. I’m proud to meet you, sir.” Frayne acknowledged this tribute by another nod, this time not even bothering to turn toward his admirer. Mackellar pattered on: “Peerless got Americanbred and Limit, that year; and he went to Reserve Winners. If I’d ’a’ been judging, I’d of gave him Winners, over Rivers Pride, that topped him. Pride was a good inch-and-a-half too short in the brush. And the sable grew away too far from his eyes. Gave ’em a roundish, big look. He was just a wee peckle overshot too. And your Peerless outshowed him, besides. But, good as Peerless was, he wasn’t a patch on this son of his you’ve got here to-day. Losh, but it sure looks like you was due to make a killing, Mr. Frayne.”