“That’s good enough for me,” returned Chris. “The feller that bred this dog of yours sure knew how to breed the best. I’ll hand him that much. And it’s the best I want. Who is he and where does he hang out?” “Wait,” said Fenno, with amazing politeness, as he heaved his rheumatic frame up from his chair and pottered away into the house. “I’ve got his _ad_dress in here. I’ll write it down for you.” With as near an approach to a grin as his surly leathern mask could achieve he made his way to his own cubbyhole room. There he dug out the battered gray catalog of the Dos Hermanos dogshow to which he had taken Treve. Riffling its pages, he came to the list of exhibitors’ names at the back. One of these he jotted down with a pencil stump on a dirty envelope and returned with it to the porch. The name he had found and scribbled was “Fraser Colt.” After it he had copied the man’s address, from the catalog. It seemed to Joel the acme of refined humor to steer this once-hostile cowpuncher up against the man of all others who seemed most likely to cheat him. Judging from his own experience with Colt, he felt reasonably certain the dog-breeder could be relied on to whipsaw any trusting customer; especially when that customer was so far distant as to make it necessary to buy, sight unseen. Royce Mack gave a low whistle of amaze as Fenno showed the name and address to him, on the way across the porch to hand it to Hibben. Then Mack choked back a half-born expostulation. He remembered the loss of sheep after sheep at the hands of the Triple Bar outfit. He saw no reason to spoil his partner’s joke. A week later, in response to a letter of inquiry, Chris received word from Fraser Colt that the latter had no full-grown and trained cattle-herding collies in stock, just then; but that he had an unusually promising thoroughbred female collie puppy which could readily be taught to work cattle, since both her parents had been natural cattle workers. As Mr. Fraser Colt was closing out his kennels and moving East, Mr. C. Hibben was at liberty to avail himself of this really remarkable chance for a bargain, by purchasing the puppy in question (“Cirenhaven Nellie”) at the ridiculously low price of seventy-five dollars; payable in advance. If this generous proposition interested Mr. C. Hibben, would Mr. C. Hibben kindly forward his check (certified) for the above sum; along with shipping directions? If, on the contrary, Mr. C. Hibben was a mere “shopper” or was inclined to haggle, this letter required no answer. Now Chris Hibben could no more have been cheated or overcharged on a consignment of beef cattle than could a bank cashier be hoaxed by a leaden half-dollar. But, on the subject of dogs he was woefully ignorant. Moreover, there was a curtly self-assured and businesslike tang to the letter, which impressed him. Besides, hadn’t the Dos Hermanos outfit a wonder-dog, acquired from the same man? Surely it was worth the gamble.