"Run on over there, Mac!" she pleaded. "That's a good boy!"
The little collie wagged his tail, peered expectantly at her, and barked. But he did not stir. He had not the faintest idea what she wanted him to do, although he would have been glad to do it. Wherefore, the bark.
Presently (after several more fruitless entreaties which reduced the dog to a paroxysm of barking) she led her collie out of the enclosure, strangling her sobs as she went. And again the Master swore softly, but with much venomous ardor.
And now, at the judge's command, the Mistress led Lad into the quadrangle and up to the central post. She was very pale, but her thoroughbred nerves were rocklike in their steadiness. She, like Lad, was of the breed that goes down fighting. Lad walked majestically beside her, his eyes dark with sorrow over his goddess' unhappiness, which he could not at all understand and which he so longed to lighten. Hitherto, at dog shows, Lad had been the only representative of The Place to grieve.
He thrust his nose lovingly into the Mistress' hand, as he moved along with her to the post; and he whined, under his breath.
Ranging up beside the judge, the Mistress took off Lad's leash and collar. Stroking the dog's upraised head, she pointed to the No. 1 Post.
"Over there," she bade him.
Lad looked in momentary doubt at her, and then at the post. He did not see the connection, nor know what he was expected to do. So, again he looked at the sorrowing face bent over him.
"Lad!" said the Mistress gently, pointing once more to the Post. "Go!"