This prolonged examination was not necessary. He had known it was not necessary from the first instant he had seen the two dogs, sire and son, standing side by side on the block before him. He was dragging out the judging, partly in the vain hope of finding something to make him reverse his first opinion, but chiefly to settle, one way or another, the battle that was waging within him.
For, at once, his acutely practised eye had discerned that Jock was the better dog. Not that he was better, necessarily, than Bruce had been a few years earlier. But hitherto unnoted marks of time on the older dog had sprung into sudden and merciless relief by comparison with the flawless youngster.
Seen alone, or with the average opponent, these would not have been noticeable. But alongside of Jock, the latter’s perfection brought out every incipient flaw of age in his sire.
All this had been patent to McGilead at his first critical glance. The younger dog was the better. Only a shade the better, thus far, it is true. But by such shades are contests won—and lost.
No outsider—few professional judges—could have recognised the superiority of one of the competitors over the other. Yet McGilead recognised it as clearly as by lightning flare. And he saw his duty—the duty that lay plain before him.
He had given Bruce his earliest ring award. He had awarded Bruce the prize that gave the dog his championship. And now he must discrown this collie he loved. For the first time he must pass Bruce over and give winners to another and younger dog. Youth will be served! His heart as sore as an ulcer, his pale and half-shut eyes smarting, the hot and impotent wrath of old age boiling in his brain, Angus McGilead continued his meaningless and seemingly bored inspection of the two dogs.
He loved Bruce—better than ever before he had realised. He had always felt himself the marvellous collie’s sponsor. And now—
Oh, why hadn’t the dog’s fool of an owner had sense enough to retire him from the ring before this inevitable downfall had come; this fate that lies craftily in wait for dog and horse and man who stay in the game too long?
The Master had said this was to be the old dog’s last show. His last show! And he must leave the ring—-beaten! Beaten by a youngster, at that! A pup who had years and years of triumphs ahead of him. Surely the smugly perfect little tike could have waited till his sire’s retirement, before beginning his own career of conquest! He needn’t have started out by annexing dear old Bruce’s scalp and by smashing the old dog’s long record of victories!
Bruce! Glorious old Brucie, whose progress had been McGilead’s own life-monument! To slink out of the ring—at his very last show, too—defeated by a puppy! Oh, this rotten cult of youth—youth—youth! He and Bruce were both back numbers at last.