of the litter, on the hour of Buff’s arrival, undertook to teach the lonesome baby his place. This he did by falling unexpectedly upon Buff as the latter stood disconsolately at the fence looking for his absent mother. The bully attacked the small newcomer with much bluster and growling and show of youthful ferocity.

It was Buff’s first encounter with an enemy—his first hint that the world was not made up wholly of friendliness. And it staggered him. Making no resistance at all, he crouched humbly under the fierce attack. The bully, at this sign of humility, proceeded to follow up his advantage by digging his milk teeth into Buff’s soft ear.

The bite stung, and with the sting came a swirl of wholesome indignation into the exiled baby’s hitherto peace-loving brain. Away back in his cosmos snarled the spirit of Upstreet Butcherboy. Scarce knowing what he did, he flashed from under the larger body and made a lightning lunge for the bully’s throat.

Subconscious fighting skill guided the counter-assault and lent zest to the grappling youngster’s onset. As a result, some five seconds later, the bully was on his back, squalling right piteously for mercy from the opponent that was barely two-thirds his size, and half his age.

By this time, Buff had shifted his vise-like grip from throat to forelegs, and thence to stomach. For, along with the pit terrier’s instinct for biting hard and holding on, he had inherited his collie forbears’ knack of being everywhere at once in a fight; and of changing one hold for a better at an instant’s notice. Which unusual combination would have delighted the soul of any professional dogfighter.

Yet, the moment the bully was cowed into subjection, Buff let him up. Nor did he—at food trough or elsewhere—seek to take advantage of his new position as boss of the run. He did not care to harass and terrorize lesser pups. He preferred to be friends with all the world, as he had been with his dear and friendly mother.

And so time wore on—time that shaped the roly-poly Buff into a leggy but handsome six-months’ pup. And now the promise of the three-day baby was fulfilled, more and more every hour. With puzzled pride Shawe used to stand and inspect him. The pup was shaping into a true winner. But what could be done with him—minus pedigree and plus bar-sinister as he was? If Buff had been a thoroughbred he would have been worth a small fortune to his owner. But now——

Again fate settled the problem—once and for all.

It was the night after the kennelman had put collars for the first time on all the pups in Buff’s yard. These collars were of a rudimentary sort, and for use only long enough to accustom the young necks to such burden. Each collar was a circle of clothesline, with buckle and tongue attached, and with its wearer’s “kennel name”—a very different title from the lofty “pedigree name”—scribbled on a tag attached to the steel tongue.

Buff did not like his collar at all. It fidgeted him and made him nervous. The name-tag flapped tantalisingly just beneath the reach of his jaws; which added to the annoyance. That was one reason why Buff could not sleep. After a time he gave up the effort at slumber, and came out of the sleeping quarters where his companions were snoozing in furry comfort.

He made a few futile attempts to get the fluttering tag between his teeth and to rub off the collar against the wire meshes. Then, with a sigh of annoyance, he stretched himself out on the ground near the yard’s gate.

He was still lying there when the kennelman came to fill the yard’s water-pans before going to bed. As all the pups, presumably, were asleep in their houses, the man did not bother to shut the wire gate behind him as he entered the yard.

Buff saw the open portal. Beyond, somewhere in the dense darkness, were the stables where his mother lived. His mother had always been able to solve his few perplexities and soothe his hurts in the days when he still had lived with her. Doubtless she could help him worry off this miserable collar and tag.

On the instant, the pup trotted out, through the swinging gate, without so much as a glance at the dimly seen man who was bending over the row of pans. And in another second the truant was in the road, sniffing to locate the stables.

But the wind set strong from the opposite direction that night. It brought to Buff a faint whiff of stables, it is true; but they were the stables of a farm a mile down the turnpike.

Now, though stable scents had been Buff’s earliest memory, yet he did not know there were any other stables extant besides those in which he had been born. So, locating the odour, he ambled eagerly off down the road in search of his mother.

Perhaps the length of the journey puzzled him, but, as every step brought the scent stronger, he kept on. At a bend in the road, a half-mile below, he struck off into the fields and woods, taking the shortest cut to the source of the ever-increasing odour.

A furlong from the road, his way led through a thick copse. Into it he galloped merrily. In its exact centre his run was halted with much abruptness. Something touched him on the chest, and, in the same instant, tightened painfully about his neck.

Buff snorted with scared anger and lunged forward. The thing about his neck promptly cut off his breathing apparatus, and dug deep into his soft flesh. Resisting the panic impulse, Buff ceased to plunge and roll, and sought to find out what had caught him.

He had run full into the middle of one of several nooses, cunningly strung through the copse, for foxes.

Twisting his head, he seized the noose’s taut end between his jaws and fell to gnawing. But he had his labour for his pains. The thin rope was braided with strands of copper wire, against just such a move on the part of some fox.

At gray dawn, the hired man of the farm, toward which Buff had been faring, came out to look at his traps. All the nooses but one hung limp. In one writhed and struggled a very tired little collie. At sight of the farm-hand, Buff stopped struggling and wagged his tail. All humans, so far as he knew, were friendly to dogs. Here, presumably, was a rescuer. And Buff greeted him with warm cordiality.

The man stood gaping at him for a space. Then a slow grin began to crease his leathery mouth. This was no fox he had caught. But it was something that might well prove as valuable. He knew Shawemere, and had often seen the Shawemere collies. He had heard that the Shawemere pups brought big prices. Here, evidently, was one of those pups—a Shawemere collie that had strayed in the night and had been noosed.

By taking the dog back to its home he might, perhaps, annex a five-dollar reward; but scarcely more. There seemed better ways of capitalising his treasure trove. Paying no heed to Buff’s friendly advances the man left him there, hurried home, received grudging permission for a half-day off, to visit the dentist in town, and presently returned to the copse, with a pig-crate over his shoulder.

It was market-day at the near-by town. And this would not be the first or the tenth time a dog had been exhibited for sale in the market enclosure. So, a hundred yards from his destination, the man lifted the pup from the too-tight crate and fastened a rope to his collar. Then he prepared to lead his prize across to the market.

But a dog that has never before been led has to be trained to follow at the gentle tug of the leash. This training sometimes takes only a few minutes, it is true. But it is needful. Now, never before had Buff been on the end of a leash. He did not know what to do.