As for the hundred dollars--why, it would be a godsend on the mortgage payment! Every cent of it could go toward the principal.
That meant Ferris could devote the extra few dollars he had already saved for the principal to the buying of fertilizers and several sorely-needed utensils and to the shingling of the house.
Avid for more news of the offer, he entered the store and hunted up the postmaster, who also chanced to be the store's proprietor and the mayor of Hampton and the local peace justice. Of this Pooh-Bah the inquiring Ferris sought for details.
"Some of the Red Cross ladies from up Craigswold way were here this morning, to have me nail that sign on the store," reported the postmaster. "They're ****** a tour of all the towns hereabouts. They asked me to try to int'rest folks at Hampton in their show, too, and get them to make entries. They left me a bunch of blanks. Want one?""Yep," said Link. "I guess I'll take one if it don't cost nothin', please."He studied the proffered entry blank with totally uncomprehending gaze. The postmaster came to his relief.
"Let me show you," he suggested, taking pity on his customer's wrinkled brow and squinting helplessness. "I've had some experience in this folderol. I took my Airedale over to the Ridgewood show last spring and got a third with him. I'm going to take him up to Craigswold on Labor Day, too. What kind of dog is yours?""The dandiest dawg that ever stood on four legs," answered Link, afire with the zeal of ownership. "Why, that dawg of mine c'n--""What breed is he?" asked the postmaster, not interested in the dawning rhapsody.
"Oh--breed?" repeated Link. "Why, I don't rightly know. Some kind of a bird dawg, I guess. Yes. A bird dawg. But he's sure the grandest--""Is he the dog you had down here, one day last month?" asked the postmaster, with a gleam of recollection.
"Yep. That's him," assented Link. "Only dawg I've got. Only dawg I ever had. Only dawg I ever want to have. He's--"But the postmaster was not attending. His time was limited. So, taking out a fountain pen, he had begun to scribble on the blank.
Filling in Link's name and address, he wrote, in the "breed and ***" spaces, the words, "Scotch collie, sable-and-white, male.""Name?" he queried, breaking in on Ferris's rambling eulogy.
"Huh?" asked the surprised Link, adding: "Oh, his name, hey? Icall him 'Chum.' You see, that dawg's more like a chum to me than--""No use asking about his pedigree, I suppose," resumed the postmaster, "I mean who his parents were and--""Nope," said Link. "I--I found him. His leg was--""Pedigree unknown," wrote the postmaster; then, "What classes are you entering him for?""Classes?" repeated Link dully. "Why, I just want to put him into that contest for 'best dawg,' you see. He--""Hold on!" interposed the postmaster impatiently. "You don't catch the idea. In each breed there are a certain number of classes: 'Puppy,' 'Novice,' 'Limit,' 'Open,' and so on. The dogs that get a blue ribbon--that's first prize--in these classes all have to appear in what is called the 'Winners Class.' Then the dog that gets 'Winner's'--the dog that gets first prize in this 'Winners' Class'--competes for best dog of his breed in the show.
After that--as a 'special'--the best in all the different breeds are brought into the ring. And the dog that wins in that final class is adjudged the 'best in the show.' He's the dog in this particular show that will get Colonel Marden's hundred-dollar cash prize. See what I mean?""Ye-es," replied Link, after digesting carefully what he had heard. "I guess so. But--""Since you've never shown your dog before," went on the postmaster, beginning to warm with professional interest, "you can enter him in the 'Novice Class.' That's generally the easiest. If he loses in that, no harm's done. If he wins he has a chance later in the 'Winners' Class.' I'm mailing my entry to-night to the committee. If you like, I'll send yours along with it. Give me a dollar."While Link extracted a greasy dollar bill from his pocket, the postmaster filled in the class space with the word "Novice.""Thanks for helpin' me out," said Ferris, grateful for the lift.
"That's all right," returned the postmaster, pocketing the bill and folding the blank, as he prepared to end the interview by moving away. "Be sure to have your dog at the gate leading into the Craigswold Country Club grounds promptly at ten o'clock on Labor Day. If you don't get a card and a tag sent to you, before then, tell your name to the clerk at the table there, and he'll give you a number. Tie your dog to the stall with that number on it, and be sure to have him ready to go into the ring when his number is called. That's all.""Thanks!" said Link, again. "An' now I guess I'll go back home an' commence brightenin' Chum up, a wee peckle, on his tricks.
Maybe I'll have time to learn him some new ones, too. I want him to make a hit with them judges, an' everything.""Tricks?" scoffed the postmaster, pausing as he started to walk away. "Dogs don't need tricks in the show ring. All you have to do is to lead your dog into the ring, and parade him round with the rest of them till the judge tells you to stop. Then he'll make them stand on the show platform while he examines them. The dog's only 'tricks' are to stand and walk at his best, and to look alert, so the judge can see the shape of his ears and get his expression. Teach your dog to walk around with you, on the leash, without hanging back, and to prick up his ears and stand at attention when you tell him to. That's all he needs to do. The judge will do the rest. Have him clean and well brushed, of course.""I--I sure feel bitter sorry for there other dawgs at the show!"mumbled Link. "A hundred dollars! Of all the dawgs that ever happened, Chummie is that one! Why, there ain't a thing he can't do, from herdin' sheep to winnin' a wad of soft money! An'--an'
he's all MINE."
