According to American Kennel Club rules, a dog must be on its bench from the moment the exhibition opens until the close, excepting only when it is in the ring or at stated exercise periods. That rule, until recently, has been most flagrantly disregarded by many exhibitors. In view of this, Frayne made a trip to the exercise room and then through the dim-lit stalls under the main floor. As he came back from a fruitless search for Bobby or for Mackellar, he passed the collie ring. “Limit; Dogs,” was chalked on the blackboard. Two classes more—“Open, Merle,” and "Open, Tricolour"—and then King must enter the ring for “Open, Sable.” Frayne hurried to the Lochinvar benches, where Roke and another kennel man were fast at work putting finishing touches to King’s toilet. The great dog was on his feet, tense and eager for the coming clash. Close behind the unseeing Roke, and studying King with grave admiration, stood Jamie Mackellar. “Hello, there!” boomed Frayne with loud cordiality, bearing down upon the little man. “Get cold feet? I see your dog’s absent. Remember, you forfeit by absence.” “Yes, sir,” said Jamie with meekness, taking off his hat to the renowned sportsman, and too confused in fumbling with its wabbly brim to see the hand which Frayne held out to him. “Yes, sir. I remember the forfeit clause, sir. I’m not forfeiting. Bobby is here.” “Here? Where? I looked all over the—” “I hired one of the cubby-hole rooms upstairs, sir; to keep him in, nights, while he’s here. And I haven’t brought him down to his bench yet. You see, he—he ain’t seen many strangers. And you’ll remember, maybe, that he used to be just a wee peckle shy. So I’m keeping him there till it is time to show him. My boy, Donald, is up, now, getting him ready. They’ll be down presently, sir. I think you’ll be real pleased with how Bobby looks.” "I’m counting on a heap of pleasure," was Frayne’s cryptic reply, as he turned away to mask a grin of utter joy. Five grey dogs were coming down the aisle to their benches. The Merle Class had been judged and the Tricolours were in the ring. There were but four of these. In another handful of minutes the “Open, Sable” Class was called. It was the strongest class of the day. It contained no less than three champions; in addition to four less famous dogs, like Bobby;—seven entries in all. Six of these dogs were marched into the ring. The judge looked at the steward, for the “all-here” signal. As he did so, the seventh entrant made his way past the gate crowd and was piloted into the ring by a small and cheaply clad man. While the attendant was slipping the number board on Mackellar’s arm, Lucius Frayne’s eyes fell upon Lochinvar Bobby. So did those of the impatient judge and the ninety out of every hundred of the railbirds. Through the close-packed ranks of onlookers ran a queer little wordless mutter—the most instinctive and therefore the highest praise that can be accorded.