odd trick of going slack on the chain for a moment and then flinging himself forward with all his surpassing speed and still more surpassing strength.

As a result, the man came back to McManus’s alone, noisily nursing three chain-torn fingers. Butcherboy trotted home to his kennel at dawn, stolidly taking the whaling which McManus saw fit to administer.

When Shawemere Queen’s six bullet-headed pups came into the world, sixty-three days later, there was loud and lurid blasphemy, at her master’s kennels. Shawe, as soon as he could speak with any degree of coherence, bade his kennelman drown five of the pups at once, and to give like treatment to the sixth as soon as its mother should have no further need of the youngster.

At random the kennelman scooped up five-sixths of the litter and strolled off to the horse-pond.

As a result of this monopoly the sixth puppy throve apace. When she was eight weeks old, fate intervened once more to save her from the horse-pond. Mrs. Shawe’s sister had come, with her two children, to spend the summer at the farm. The children, after a glimpse of the pure-breed collie litters gambolling in the shaded puppy-run, had clamoured loudly for a pup of their own to play with.

Shawe knew the ways of a child with a puppy. He was of no mind to risk chorea or rickets or fits or other ailments, for any of his priceless collie babies; from such Teddy Bear handling as the two youngsters would probably give it. Yet the clamour of the pair grew the more plangently insistent.

Then it was that the bothered man bethought him of the illegitimate offspring of Shawemere Queen, the nondescript pup he had planned to drown within the next few days. The problem was solved.

Once more, peace reigned at Shawemere. And the two children were deliriously happy in the possession of a shaggy and shapeless morsel of puppyhood, in whose veins coursed the ancient royal blood of pure colliedom and the riotously battling strain of the pit-warriors.

They named their pet “Nina,” after a Pomeranian they had mauled and harassed into convulsions. And they prepared to give like treatment to their present puppy.

But a cross-breed is ever prone to be super-sturdy. The roughly affectionate manhandling which had torn the Pom’s hair-trigger nerves and tenuous vitality to shreds had no effect at all upon Nina. On the contrary, she waxed fat under the dual caresses and yankings of her new owners.

Which was lucky. For, while a puppy is an ideal playmate for a child, the average child is a horrible playmate for a puppy. With no consciousness of cruelty, children maul or neglect or otherwise ill-treat thousands of friendly and helpless puppies to death, every year. And fond parents look on, with fatuous smiles, at their playful offsprings’ barbarity.

Strong and vigorous from birth, Nina began to take on size at an amazing rate. Before she was eight months old she stood higher at the shoulder than any collie at Shawemere. She looked like no other dog on earth, and she was larger by far than either of her parents.

The cleverest breeder cannot always breed his best stock true to type. And when it comes to crossbreeding—especially with dogs—nothing short of Mother Nature herself can predict the outcome.

Nina was a freak. She resembled outwardly neither collie nor pit bull-terrier. Withal, she was not ill to look on. There was a compact symmetry and an impression of latent power to her. And the nondescript coat was thick and fine. In spite of all this, she probably would have met with a swift and reasonably merciful death, on the departure of the two children, that autumn, had not Shawe realised that the youngsters had been invited to the farm for the following summer, and that the presence of their adored Nina would save some thoroughbred pup from sacrifice as a pet.

So the crossbreed was permitted to stay on, living at Shawemere on sufferance, well enough fed and housed in the stables, permitted to wander pretty much at will, but unpetted and unnoticed. The folk at the farm believed in breeding true to form. A nondescript did not interest them.

And the loss was theirs. For the gigantic young mongrel was worth cultivating. Clever, lovable, obedient, brave, she was an ideal farm dog. And wistfully she sought to win friends from among these indifferent humans. Sadly she missed the petting and the mauling of the children.

These so-called mongrels, by the way, are prone to be cleverer and stronger than any thoroughbred. Rightly trained, they are ideal chums and pets and guards—a truth too little known.

If the farm people had troubled to give Nina one-fiftieth of the attention they lavished on the kennel dogs, they would have seen to it that she did not set forth, one icy moonlight night in late November, on a restless gallop over the hills beyond the farm. And this story would not have been written.

Champion Shawemere King was one of the four greatest collies in America—perhaps on earth. He was such a dog as is bred perhaps twice in a generation—flawless in show qualities and in beauty and in mind. He had annexed the needful “fifteen points” for his championship at the first six shows to which Shawe had taken him. Everywhere, he had swept his way to “Winners” with ridiculous ease. He was the sensation of every show he went to.

Wisely, Shawe had withdrawn him from the ring while King was still in his glory. And, a few years later, the champion had been taken permanently from the kennels and had been promoted (or retired) to the rank of chief house-dog. As perfect in the home as in the ring, he was the pride and ornament of the big farmhouse.

On this particular November night of ice and moonlight, King had turned his back on the warmth of the living-room fire and the disreputable old fur rug that was his resting-place, and had stretched himself upon the veranda mat, head between forepaws; his deep-set dark eyes fixed on the highroad leading from town. Shawe had gone to town for the evening. He had forbidden King to go with him. But, collie-like, the champion had preferred waiting on the cold porch for a first glimpse of his returning master, rather than to lie in smug comfort indoors.

As he lay there he lifted his head suddenly from between his white forepaws and sniffed the dead-cold air. At the same moment the patter of running feet on the icy ground caught his ear. Scent and sound came from the direction of the distant stables.

Then, athwart his gaze, loomed something big and bulky, that flashed in the white moonlight, cantering past him with an inviting backward lilt of the head as it made for the hills.

At once, on the invitation, King forgot his accruing years and his dignity. With a bound he was at Nina’s side. Together the two raced madly across the yard and across the yellow road and on up into the hills.

It was a wonderful night for such a wild run. Pure-breed and cross-breed were obsessed by the urge of it all. Forgotten was King’s stolidly loyal intent to lie on the chilly mat until Shawe should return. Forgotten was the wistful loneliness that had saddened Nina since the departure of the two children.

As the dogs bounded across the bright road, the kennelman, returning from a stroll, caught sight of them and recognised them. He shouted to King to come to heel. The champion did not so much as look back. At Shawe’s call he would have obeyed—though with vast reluctance. But this man was a hireling. And no dog knows better than a collie the wide difference in the loyal obedience due to a master and the negligible civility due to an employee. So King kept on, at the shoulder of his