At three months he launched forth merrily as a chicken-killer; gleefully running down and beheading The Place’s biggest Orpington rooster.  But his first kill was his last.  The Master saw to that.

There is no use in thrashing a dog for killing poultry.  There is but one practically sure cure for the habit.  And this one cure the Master applied.

He tied the slain rooster firmly around Bruce’s furry throat, and made the puppy wear it, as a heavy and increasingly malodorous pendant, for three warm days and nights.

Before the end of this seventy-two-hour period, Bruce had grown to loathe the sight and scent of chicken.  Stupid as he was, he learned this lesson with absolute thoroughness,—­as will almost any chicken-killing pup,—­and it seemed to be the only teaching that his unawakened young brain had the power to grasp.

In looks, too, Bruce was a failure.  His yellowish-and-white body was all but shapeless.  His coat was thick and heavy enough, but it showed a tendency to curl—­almost to kink—­instead of waving crisply, as a collie’s ought.  The head was coarse and blurred in line.  The body was gaunt, in spite of its incessant feedings.  As for contour or style—­

It was when the Master, in disgust, pointed out these diverse failings of the pup, that the Mistress was wont to draw on historic precedent for other instances of slow development, and to take in vain the names of Thackeray, Lincoln, Washington and Bismarck and the rest.

“Give him time!” she urged once.  “He isn’t quite six months old yet; and he has grown so terribly fast.  Why, he’s over two feet tall, at the shoulder, even now—­much bigger than most full-grown collies.  Champion Howgill Rival is spoken of as a ‘big’ dog; yet he is only twenty-four inches at the shoulder, Mr. Leighton says.  Surely it’s something to own a dog that is so big.”

“It is ‘something,’” gloomily conceded the Master.  “In our case it is a catastrophe.  I don’t set up to be an expert judge of collies, so maybe I am all wrong about him.  I’m going to get professional opinion, though.  Next week they are going to have the spring dogshow at Hampton.  It’s a little hole-in-a-corner show, of course.  But Symonds is to be the all-around judge, except for the toy breeds.  And Symonds knows collies, from the ground up.  I am going to take Bruce over there and enter him for the puppy class.  If he is any good, Symonds will know it.  If the dog is as worthless as I think he is, I’ll get rid of him.  If Symonds gives any hope for him, I’ll keep him on a while longer.”

“But,” ventured the Mistress, “if Symonds says ‘Thumbs down,’ then—­”

“Then I’ll buy a pet armadillo or an ornithorhynchus instead,” threatened the Master.  “Either of them will look more like a collie than Bruce does.”

“I—­I wonder if Mr. Symonds smokes,” mused the Mistress under her breath.

“Smokes?” echoed the Master.  “What’s that got to do with it?”