No man or woman who saw the work of Arnold's Drake the rest of that morning can ever forget it. Fast as ever, yet he kept the course. Bold, independent, aggressive, yet at every shrill whistle he turned, and according to the wave of her handkerchief went to right or left.
Ten coveys of birds, in the hour and a half that remained to him, he found. From terrific speed men saw him flash ten times into the statuesque immobility of a point. They forgot even so steady and painstaking a fellow as Count Redstone. It was the pointer who captured their imaginations.
On Saturday night, while the crowd was at supper, the decision of the judges, who always stopped at Freedom Hill, was telephoned in. And the decision showed them to be dog men, not martinets—men who can overlook a grievous fault in the face of a magnificent accomplishment and a future full of promise.
A veteran reporter took the message, then stood in the dining-room door a moment, his eyes twinkling at the faces turned his way.
"Champion," he said, and paused a moment, "Champion, Arnold's Drake."
But when the girl declared she must telegraph her father, old Burton pushed through the crowd about her.
"I'll attend to that," he said.
He saw the quick friendliness in her upraised eyes. Had he not shown faith throughout in her dog?
Out in the hall he spoke to the men: "Telephone Ferris," he said. "He's stopping with the postmaster. Tell him to come at once."