"And your rare 'Prussian sheep dog'—or was it a prune-hound?—that a Chicago man sold to you for $1100," supplemented the Master, swallowing a grin. "I remember. I remember them all. What then?"
"Well," resumed Glure, "no one can accuse me of not practicing what I preach. I began this splendid campaign by getting rid of every dog I owned. So I——"
"Yes," agreed the Master. "I read all about that last month in your local paper. Distemper had run through your kennel, and you tried doctoring the dogs on a theory of your own instead of sending for a vet. So they all died. Tough luck! Or perhaps you got rid of them that way on purpose? For the good of the Cause? I'm sorry about the Merle. He was——"
"I see there's no use talking to you," sighed Glure in disgust, ponderously rising and waddling toward his car. "I'm disappointed; because I hoped you were less bone-brained and more patriotic than these yokels round here."
"I'm not," cheerily conceded the Master. "I'm not, I'm glad to say. Not a bit."
"Then," pursued Glure, climbing into the car, "since you feel that way about it, I suppose there's no use asking you to come to the little cattle show I'm organizing for week after next, because that's for the Food Conservation League too. And since you're so out of sympathy with——"
"I'm not out of sympathy with the League," asserted the Master. "Its card is in our kitchen window. We've signed its pledge and we're boosting it in every way we know how, except by killing our dogs; and that's no part of the League's programme, as you know very well. Tell me more about the cattle show."
"It's a neighborhood affair," said Glure sulkily, yet eager to secure any possible entrants. "Just a bunch of home-raised cattle. Cup and rosette for best of each recognized breed, and the usual ribbons for second and third. Three dollars an entry. Only one class for each breed. Every entrant must have been raised by the exhibitor. Gate admission fifty cents. Red Cross to get the gross proceeds. I've offered the use of my south meadow at Glure Towers—just as I did for the specialty dog show. I've put up a hundred dollars toward the running expenses too. Micklesen's to judge."
"I don't go in for stock raising," said the Master. "My little Alderney heifer is the only head of quality stock I ever bred. I doubt if she is worth taking up there, but I'll be glad to take her if only to swell the competition list. Send me a blank, please."