Well, you remember the court decided against him, which was the only
thing it could do, for Larsen didn't have any more right to that dog
than the Sultan of Turkey. But, Mr. Devant, I was there. I saw Larsen's
face, sir, when the case went against him."

Devant looked keenly at Thompson.

"Another thing, Mr. Devant," Thompson went on, still hesitatingly.
"Larsen had a chance to get hold of this breed of pointers. He lost out
because he dickered too long and acted cheesy. Now they've turned out to
be famous. Some men never forget a thing like that, sir. Larsen's been
talking these pointers down ever since. At least, that's what folks tell
me. He's staked his reputation on his own breed of dogs. Calls 'em the
Larsen strain."

"Go on," said Devant.

"I know Larsen's a good trainer. But it'll mean a long trip for the
young dog. It'll be hard to keep in touch with him, too. Now there's an
old trainer lives near here, old Wade Swygert. Used to train dogs in
England. He's been out of the game a long time--rheumatism. He wants to
get back in. He's all right now. I know he never made a big name, but
there never was a straighter man than him. He's had bad luck----"

Devant smiled. "Thompson, I admire your loyalty to your friends, but I
don't think much of your judgment. We'll turn some of the other puppies
over to Swygert if he wants them, but Comet must have the best. I'll
write Larsen to-night. To-morrow, crate Comet and send him off."

Just as no dog ever came into the world under more favourable auspices,
so no dog ever had a bigger "send-off" than Comet. Even the ladies in
the house came out to exclaim over him, and Marian Devant, pretty,
eighteen, and a sportswoman, stooped down, caught his head between her
hands, looked into his fine eyes, and wished him "Good luck, old man."
In the living room men laughingly drank toasts to his future, and from
the high-columned front porch Marian Devant waved him good-bye as he was
driven off to the station, a bewildered young dog in a padded crate.

Two days and two nights he travelled. At noon of the third, at a dreary
railroad station in a vast prairie country, he was lifted, crate and
all, off the train. A man, tall, lean, pale-eyed, came down the platform
toward him.

"Some beauty here, Mr. Larsen," said the station agent.

"Yes," drawled Larsen in a meditative, sanctimonious voice. "Pretty to
the eye, but he looks scared--er--timid."

"Of course he's scared!" protested t