“Huh!” snorted Joel, loudly.
“It’s only about a hundred miles from here,” pursued Davids. “You can make most of the trip by train; and get there in less than a day. Think it over. It’d be a fine thing to bring Treve home with a bunch of blue ribbons and maybe a big silver cup; and have all the papers printing his name. It’s as much of a triumph for a dog to win first prizes at such a show as for a man to be elected to Congress.”
Another derisive snort from Joel Fenno interrupted his homily and made Royce frown apologetically at the annoyed guest.
Now there was harrowing ridicule in Fenno’s snort. But in the heart of Fenno an astonishing impulse had swirled into life. The snort was designed to frighten this yearning impulse to death. It could not.
Whenever any one looked or spoke approvingly of Treve, old Fenno had something of the thrill that might come to a man at praise of a cherished brother. While he girded at this feeling, as babyishly absurd, he could not check it. He loved the big collie; and he was inordinately proud of him. That others should admire Treve seemed in a way a sort of backhanded compliment to himself—to Joel who had never in his life been admired or complimented.
And now, at Davids’ careless words, a glowing picture leaped into Fenno’s dazed mental vision—a picture of cheering throngs at the La Cerra show, all admiring and praising his victorious Treve. This and a crazy desire to take the collie there.
As if in contempt for his companions’ chatter about a mere dog, Joel got up, presently, and sauntered into the house. He strolled through the room he and Royce Mack had assigned to Davids for the night. There on the floor, alongside the engineer’s kitbag, lay the crumpled copy of the Clarion. Furtively, Joel pouched it and bore it to his own cubbyhole room. There, that night, long after the others were asleep, he crouched on his bunk and read and reread and sought to master the many bewildering bits of information as to the show and as to the mode of conducting dogshows in general.
Much was as Greek to him; until he figured it out with painful patience. Twice he flung the paper on the floor with a grunt of disgust. But ever that glowing vision of his chum’s triumphs goaded him on. Through the silent hours he continued to wrestle with the details; as simplified for the benefit of novices.
Once, during his reading, he looked up guiltily. In the doorway of his little room stood Treve, gravely inspecting him. The soft sound of rustled paper had roused the collie from his nightly slumber alongside Royce’s bunk. He had set forth to investigate. As Joel peered blinkingly toward him, Treve wagged his plumed tail and came mincing forward; thrusting his classic muzzle into the hand which Fenno instinctively stretched forth.