But now he saw men currying their dogs with expert touch; brushing the hair up and out; so that it should not cleave to the body and so that its texture and abundance might be fully seen by the judge. After watching this process for several minutes and catching sight of a collie poster on one of the benchbacks, Joel unearthed a mangy dandy-brush from his kitbag; and proceeded to fall to work right vigorously on Treve. The water had, for the most part, evaporated from the slicked coat. What was left of it made the coat and frill stand out with redoubled luxuriance as Joel brushed it upward.
Then Fenno scanned his neighbors, once more, for further tips in collie-dressing. He was vaguely aware that several spectators had paused at Treve’s bench, as they drifted past. They were eyeing the dog in open admiration. This pleased Joel, but it did not surprise him. To him it seemed only natural that people should stop to admire such a dog. Then he heard one of the spectators read aloud to another from a gray-backed catalog he held:
“‘217. J. Fenno. TREVE. Particulars Not Given. Entered in Class 68.’
“That’s funny!” went on the reader, looking up from the catalog’s meager information and studying afresh the collie in front of him. “That’s mighty funny, Chris! Here’s one of the best collies I’ve set eyes on. Class in every inch of him. He’ll give Champion Howgill Rival the tussle of his life, for Winners, to-day. And yet he isn’t even registered. ‘Particulars not given.’ It doesn’t seem possible the owner of a championship-timber collie, like that, shouldn’t know his pedigree and his breeder’s name. ‘Particulars not given.’ Gee! That’s the stock phrase they use for mutts. This dog’s a second Seedley Stirling. It doesn’t make sense. Who’s ‘J. Fenno,’ anyway? Ever hear of him?”
“Some yap, out here, who bought the dog as a month-old pup, I s’pose,” answered the man addressed, “and who doesn’t know what he’s got. I’m going to hunt him out, before the judging; and see what I can buy this collie for. Maybe I can pick him up for a song. It’s a cinch his value will boom, after he’s been judged. Everybody’ll be wanting him, then. I’m going on a still hunt, right away, for J. Fenno.”
“Meanin’ me?” asked Joel, turning on him with a sour suddenness that made the Easterner recoil an involuntary step. “I’m Fenno. An’ I’m the man you’ve got to go on a still hunt for, to buy this dog for a song.”
“No offense,” disclaimed the other, mistaking Joel’s normal manner for snarling displeasure. “I like this dog of yours. That is,” he hedged, craftily, “I like him in spots. He’s more good than bad. I don’t mind making you an offer for him, if you’ve got the sense to sell him cheap. How about it?”
“I don’t know how much cash you’re packin’ in that greasy old ill-fitting handmedown suit you’re wearin’,” replied Joel, with his wonted exquisite courtesy. “Nor yet I don’t know what value you place on the mortgaged hencoop you live in, back home. But the whole price won’t buy this collie of mine. Not if you throw in the million dollars diff’rence between your valuation of yourself and my valuation of you. Have I made it plain, friend? If I haven’t, I’ll try to speak less flatterin’ and talk turkey to you.”
Without awaiting reply he turned his lean back to the flustered Easterner. The move brought Fenno face to face with a stout man in vivid raiment.
“Selling that dog of yours?” queried the stout man, catalog in hand.