Granther used to tell me how the gentry on the other side would bet with each other on their dogs at the shows. Six months ago my Aunt Marjorie died and she willed me nine hundred dollars ($900). It is in bank waiting for a good investment for it. Now here is an investment that seems to me a mighty safe one. Me knowing Bobby as I do. A fine sporting investment. And I hope it may please you as well. I am entering Bobby for Westminster. I read in _Dog News_ that you are expecting to enter Champion Lochinvar King there, with others of your string. So here is my proposition. I propose you enter King for “Open, Sable-and-White” and “Open, Any Colour,” these being the only regular classes a sable champion is eligible for. I will enter Bobby in the same classes, instead of “Novice” as I was going to. And I will wager you six hundred dollars ($600) even, that the judge will place Bobby above King. I am making this offer knowing how fine King is but thinking my dog is even better. For Bobby has really improved since a pup. My wife thinks so too. If this offer pleases you, will you deposit a certified check of six hundred dollars ($600) with the editor of _Dog News_? He is a square man as every one knows and he will see fair play. He has promised me he will hold the stakes. I am ready to deposit my certified check for six hundred dollars ($600) at once. I would like to bet the whole nine hundred dollars ($900). Knowing it a safe investment. Knowing Bobby like I do. But my wife doesn’t want me to bet it at all and so we are compromising on six hundred dollars ($600). Please let me hear from you on this, Mr. Frayne. And I thank you again for how you treated me as regards Bobby. I hope to repay you at Westminster by letting you see him for yourself. Your ob’t servant, James A. Mackellar. Yes, it was a long letter. Yet Frayne skipped no word of it. And Roke listened, as to heavenly music. “Talk about Lochinvar luck!” chortled Frayne as he finished. “The worst pup we ever bred; and we sold him for one-fifty! And now he is due to fetch us another six hundred, in dividends. He—” “You’re going to cover his bet?” queried Roke. “Good! I was afraid maybe you’d feel kind of sorry for the poor cuss, and—” “Unless I break both wrists, in the next hour,” announced Frayne, “that certified check will start for the _Dog News_ office by noon. It’s the same old wheeze: A dub has picked up a smattering of dog talk; he thinks he knows it all. He buys a bum pup with a thundering pedigree. The pedigree makes him think the pup is a humdinger. He brags about it to his folks. They think anything that costs so much must be the best ever, no matter how it looks. And he gets to believing he’s got a world beater. Then—”