Then, of a morning, when Lass was just eleven months old, two things happened.

The Mistress and the Master went down to her kennel after breakfast.  Lass did not run forth to greet them as usual.  She lay still, wagging her tail in feeble welcome as they drew near.  But she did not get up.

Crowding close to her tawny side was a tiny, shapeless creature that looked more like a fat blind rat than like anything else.  It was a ten-hour-old collie pup—­a male, and yellowish brown of hue.

“That’s the climax!” complained the Master, breaking in on the Mistress’s rhapsodies.  “Here we’ve been planning to start a kennel of home-bred collies!  And see what results we get!  One solitary puppy!  Not once in ten times are there less than six in a collie-litter.  Sometimes there are a dozen.  And here the dog you wheedled me into keeping has just one!  I expected at least seven.”

“If it’s a freak to be the only puppy in a litter,” answered the Mistress, refusing to part with her enthusiasm over the miracle, “then this one ought to bring us luck.  Let’s call him ‘Bruce.’  You remember, the original Bruce won because of the mystic number, seven.  This Bruce has got to make up to us for the seven puppies that weren’t born.  See how proud she is of him!  Isn’t she a sweet little mother?”

The second of the morning’s events was a visit from the foreman of the Rothsay Kennels, who motored across to The Place, intent on clearing up a mystery.

“The Boss found a collie yesterday, tied in the front yard of a negro cabin a mile or two from our kennels,” he told the Master.  “He recognized her right away as Rothsay Princess.  The negro claims to have found her wandering around near the railroad tracks, one night, six months ago.  Now, what’s the answer?”

“The answer,” said the Master, “is that your boss is mistaken.  I’ve had Rothsay Princess for the past six months.  And she’s the last dog I’ll ever get from the Rothsay Kennels.  I was stung, good and plenty, on that deal.

“My wife wanted to keep her, or I’d have made a kick in the courts for having to pay two hundred dollars for a cheeky, apple-domed, prick eared—­”

“Prick-eared!” exclaimed the foreman, aghast at the volleyed sacrilege.  “Rothsay Princess has the best ears of any pup we’ve bred since Champion Rothsay Chief.  Not a flaw in that pup.  She—­”

“Not a flaw, hey!” sniffed the Master.  “Come down to the kennel and take a look at her.  She has as many flaws as a street-cur has fleas.”

He led the way to the kennel.  At sight of the stranger Lass growled and showed her teeth.  For a collie mother will let nobody but proven friends come near to her newborn brood.

The foreman stared at the hostile young mother for a half-minute, whistling bewilderedly between his teeth.  Then he laughed aloud.

“That’s no more Rothsay Princess than I am!” he declared.  “I know who she is, though.  I’d remember that funny mask among a million.  That’s Rothsay Lass!  Though how she got here—!