As Harry Barton had said, it was only a short run on the train to Thornboro. The three boys disembarked at the station and walked up a winding, muddy road, for the sun was gathering strength and the snow had been melting fast. The fields and hillsides lay brown and dry, but not uninviting. It was a glorious day to be out of doors, especially upon such a quest.
They came at length to an entrance in a privet hedge and passed up a long driveway with maple trees along both sides. At the end of it they could see a large brick house with white pillars along the front.
"My, but this is a big place," said Ernest.
"Sure," said Harry. "Mr. Hartshorn is a rich man. If he wasn't, how do you s'pose he could keep so many dogs and hire a man just to take care of them?"
"What does he do with so many?" inquired Jack, to whom the care of one small puppy seemed a considerable responsibility.
"Oh, he shows them," was Harry's somewhat vague explanation. "He takes prizes with them at dog shows. Some of them are champions. He breeds them, too, and he sells the puppies he doesn't want to keep. I guess he makes a good deal of his money that way."
"What kind of dogs are they?" asked Ernest.
"Mostly Airedale terriers and white bull terriers," said Harry. "Not common bull terriers, like Frank Symonds's, but the finest kind, all white."
As they neared the house, Harry led them into a path through the shrubbery which brought them at last around to the rear, where there was a big stable and garage, a greenhouse, and some other buildings.
"That long low building is the kennels," said Harry. "The dogs are in their runs out back, I expect, and prob'ly Tom is out there, too."