When he was only three weeks old he pointed a butterfly that lit in the yard in front of his nose.
"Come here, Molly," yelled Jim to his wife. "Pointed—the little cuss!"
When Thompson started taking the growing pups out of the yard, into the fields to the side of the Devants' great southern winter home, Oak Knob, it was Comet who strayed farthest from the man's protecting care. And when Jim taught them all to follow when he said "Heel," to drop when he said "Drop," and to stand stock-still when he said "Ho," he learned far more quickly than the others.
At six months he set his first covey of quail, and remained perfectly staunch. "He's goin' to make a great dog," said Thompson. Everything—size, muscle, nose, intelligence, earnestness—pointed to the same conclusion. Comet was one of the favoured of the gods.
One day, after the leaves had turned red and brown and the mornings grown chilly, a crowd of people, strangers to him, arrived at Oak Knob. Then out of the house with Thompson came a big man in tweed clothes, and the two walked straight to the curious young dogs, who were watching them with shining eyes and wagging tails.
"Well, Thompson," said the big man, "which is the future champion you've been writing me about?"
"Pick him out for yourself, sir," said Thompson confidently.
After that they talked a long time planning for the future of Comet. His yard training was now over (Thompson was only yard trainer), and he must be sent to a man experienced in training and handling for field trials.
"Larsen's the man to bring him out," said the big man in tweeds, who was George Devant himself. "I saw his dogs work in the Canadian Derby."
Thompson spoke hesitatingly, apologetically, as if he hated to bring the matter up. "Mr. Devant, … you remember, sir, a long time ago Larsen sued us for old Ben."