"But I thought you and Dad said last year he was too old to show any more," ventured the Boy.
"This time is different," said the Mistress. "It's a specialty show, you see, and there is a cup offered for 'the best veteran dog of any recognized breed.' Isn't that fine? We didn't hear of the Veteran Cup till Dr. Hooper telephoned to us about it this morning. So we're getting Lad ready. There can't be any other veteran as splendid as he is."
"No," agreed the Boy, dully, "I suppose not."
He went into the dining-room, surreptitiously helped himself to a handful of lump-sugar and passed on out to the veranda. Wolf was sprawled half-asleep on the driveway lawn in the sun.
The dog's wolflike brush began to thump against the shaven grass. Then, as the Boy stood on the veranda edge and snapped his fingers, Wolf got up from his soft resting-place and started toward him, treading mincingly and with a sort of swagger, his slanting eyes half shut, his mouth a-grin.
"You know I've got sugar in my pocket as well as if you saw it," said the Boy. "Stop where you are."
Though the Boy accompanied his order with no gesture nor change of tone, the dog stopped dead short ten feet away.
"Sugar is bad for dogs," went on the Boy. "It does things to their teeth and their digestions. Didn't anybody ever tell you that, Wolfie?"
The young dog's grin grew wider. His slanting eyes closed to mere glittering slits. He fidgeted a little, his tail wagging fast.
"But I guess a dog's got to have some kind of consolation purse when he can't go to a show," resumed the Boy. "Catch!"