The chairman of the dog-show committee was also one of the chief stockholders of the Duneka Chronicle. Wherefore, the dictum had gone forth to the Chronicle city-room that the show was to be played up, big, in both morning and evening editions. And the paper’s best descriptive writer, one Graham, had been assigned to do some “human-interest stuff” about it, in addition to the sporting editor’s regulation account.
Graham was a good reporter, and he had a genius for human-interest yarns. But of dogs he knew little, and of dog-shows he knew even less. Yet, gleaning such information on the subject as he could, he had set forth for the show this morning; taking along the paper’s sole photographer.
After pausing near the front entrance to accustom their ears to the frightful din and to take a snapshot of the trophy-case, the two newspaper men had wandered down the first aisle into which their non-enthusiastic feet had chanced to stray. There, suddenly, Graham saw one of the “human-interest bits” for which he was always hunting.
Midway in an aisle labelled COLLIE SECTION sat a tired man, a typical mountaineer, beside a huge collie. And to the civilly interested dog the mountaineer was exhibiting pridefully a silver cup; larger than any in the trophy-case. He was talking to the dog, too, in a confidential whisper; evidently telling the collie what a splendid victory he had scored and how proud of him his master was.
Here was human-interest stuff, if ever Graham had seen it!
“Cup for best collie in the show?” asked Graham of the scowling hill-billy.
“Yep!” snapped Jeff Titus, defiantly.
“Good boy!” exclaimed Graham, seeking by effusive geniality to break down the mountaineer’s surly reserve. “He’s sure one peach of a dog! What’s his name? And what’s yours?”
“His name,” said Jeff with perilous courtesy, “is Robin—Robin Adair. He b’longs to my wife, Miz Jeff Titus—up Keytesville-way. She’s sick, to home. I’m showin’ him fer her. Got any more questions to pester me with, b’fore——”
“Would you mind holding up the cup, a second?” wheedled Graham, scribbling with a chewed pencil on a doubled wad of copy paper. “So! Thanks!”