282 



RECREATION 



"You're a companionable old chap, Dick. 

 I believe there is stuff in you for a field-trial 

 winner even if you have a crooked foreleg, 

 and I mean to give you a run for the money, 

 old boy." 



I didn't mind it one bit when he mentioned 

 my deformity, for his tone was all kindness — 

 something which even a Llewellin setter 

 puppy appreciates — and what he said about 

 giving me a chance in the field-trials sent 

 me into an ecstacy of delight. 



Busy days followed my master's staid de- 

 termination to try me out. We took long, 

 happy rambles afield, where he put me 

 through a course of sporting sprouts — work- 

 ing the stubble for bird sign, pointing and 

 flushing game — and I proved an apt pupil, if 

 I do say it myself. I forgot all about my bad 

 leg, and I verily believe my master did, too — 

 at least while teaching me the rules of the 

 game. This happy life took up the summer 

 months. When early autumn came close at 

 hand, and we were returning one day from 

 an unsually successful day with the birds, my 

 master stopped suddenly. 



"Dick!" he exclaimed, slapping me on the 

 back in a manner I had grown accustomed to 

 expect during my later lessons, "Dick, old 

 dog, I've taught you all there is to learn, and 

 you have taken to it like a true son of Sweep- 

 stakes and Lady J., which you certainly are. 

 We'll go down-Sound to the trials next week, 

 and I'll bet a hundred-dollar Greener against 

 a measly box of shells that you receive an 

 honorable mention if nothing more. You'll 

 get tangled up with some fast company down 

 on the flats — best in the Northwest — and some 

 of your smart brothers and sisters will be 

 lined up against you, and you've got a half- 

 way bum leg; but I'm backing you to make 

 good; will you do "it?" 



I closed my jaws with a snap, and I guess 

 my master knew without me telling him in 

 so many words that I would do my best to 

 repay him for his kindness and instruction ; 

 then I wanted to show that bunch of skep- 

 tical sportsmen who passed me up as im- 

 possible as a field-trial candidate that blood 

 will tell in a dog just as it does in a man, 

 crooked leg or no. 



One week later, while going down Puget 

 Sound by steamer to La Conner, where the 

 trials are always held, I didn't feel a bit 

 nervous among the sportsmen and dogs, nor 

 did I experience any feeling of shame con- 

 cerning my leg, though several times- I 

 caught the other dogs looking at it and grin- 

 ning. At another time, perhaps, I should 

 not have passed this insult by without a 

 reckoning with the offenders, but just now 

 I had something else to think of, and I knew 

 the least excitement might spoil a dog's 

 chances in a closely contested trial, such as 

 my master told me the La Connor meeting 

 would be. Arriving at our destination I 

 met a couple of my brothers and sisters, 

 who were glad to see me, but who expressed 



a belief that my master acted foolishly in 

 bringing a crooked-legged dog to compete in 

 so important an event. This remark hurt 

 me more than I can tell you, for it came 

 from members of my own family whom I 

 loved, and you know that such things sink 

 deeper in the heart than when they come 

 from outsiders. Then I met the party of 

 men who prophesied my uselessness two 

 long years before. I recognized their faces 

 and voices; how could I forget either? They 

 laughed good-humoredly at my master, refer- 

 ring to me as "a 40-to-i shot." My master 

 smiled, telling them it was a trifle too early 

 in the game to take snap-shot judgment on 

 any dog. 



Early in the morning following our ar- 

 rival the party lost no time in ransacking the 

 little town for rigs to take us to the flats. 

 A glorious drive it was, too, and even in 

 the excited expectancy of my coming or- 

 deal I thoroughly enjoyed those two long 

 miles through autumnal colorings of scarlet, 

 yellow, green and brown, all merged in ka- 

 leidoscopic beauty, drawing away on each 

 side of the trail in vast flat reaches, and 

 I gladly filled my lungs with invigorating 

 salt air, which blew from the northwest. To 

 tell the solemn truth, I quite and entirely 

 forgot the field-trials while reveling in this 

 nature enjoyment, only being brought back 

 to my senses when our buckboard stopped 

 and my master hitched his horses to the post 

 of a tall rail fence. 



I shall not attempt to describe the Derby 

 or the Subscription Stakes. I was in the 

 All-Age event, and previous sights at that 

 field-trial were dissipated in my memory by 

 subsequent happenings and preparations for 

 my debut. My master was the personifica- 

 tion of kindness. He washed out my mouth 

 and carefully rubbed my muscles, causing 

 me to feel generally good. As thanks for 

 this attention I could only lick his hands 

 and wag my tail, but I guess he understood 

 my appreciation. 



"It's even worse than I anticipated, Dick, 

 old dog," he said. "The talent of the North- 

 west is entered in your class to-day. There's 

 Lady Betty, twice an all-age winner ; Gen- 

 tleman Jim, who captured the championship 

 last year; Policy Queen, a whirlwind when 

 it comes to fast, rangy work; Idlewild, 

 Jenny, Bozeman, Gilt-Edge and Dashwood, 

 all corkers. Then there are your two broth- 

 ers and one of your sisters. You're up 

 against a hard game, old doggie, but I'm 

 not trying to hedge my bets on you." 



The way our names were drawn from the 

 hat the night before put me at the end with 

 Gentleman Jim. I felt glad to go against 

 this chap, for his last year's victory in the 

 all-age class left him so cocky that he struck 

 me as being altogether insufferable. 



Pair at a time the other dogs started to 

 work, and one by one the judge culled them 

 — my brothers and sister being among the 



