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"Take it into the boat with you." said the Master. "That's all. Goodbye. See you at the Beauville show." Waiting only for the canoe and its four vociferous occupants to start safely from shore, the Master returned to the house; Lad at his heels; pursued by a quadruple avalanche of abuse from the damp trespassers.

Hence the series of special baths and brushings. Hence, too, Laddie's daily-increasing gloom. At eight o'clock on the morning of the show, the Mistress and the Master, with Lad stretched forlornly on the rear seat of the car, set forth up the Valley on the forty-mile run to Beauville. Lad blinked down at the suitcase in morose disapproval. He hated that bag. It spelt "dogshow" to him.

"Aren't you the manager of the Lochaber Collie Kennels, up at Beauville?" he asked, speaking loud enough to be heard above the subsiding din. "I think I've seen you at Westminster and at some of the local shows. Higham is your name, isn't it?" "Yes, it is," returned the kennel man, truculent, but surprised almost into civility. "And this is my assistant, Mister Rice.

Lad's chief objection to them was that he hated to be chirped to and pawed and stared upon by an army of strangers. Such a one-day event was the outdoor Charity Dogshow at the Beauville Country Club, forty miles to northeast of the Place; an easy two-hour drive.

My mother found herself crouched against the bed, and rose rose with a glad invincible conviction of accepted prayer. . . . Already, when it came to us, the soldiers, crowded between the lines of dusty poplars along the road to Allarmont, were chatting and sharing coffee with the French riflemen, who had hailed them from their carefully hidden pits among the vineyards up the slopes of Beauville.

But in rainy weather, especially in a tumultuous thunderstorm, it has not one redeeming feature. The Beauville Show Committee, like all experts in such matters, had taken this chance into account.