Then came a day when again a visitor stopped in front of Lass’s run.  He was not much of a visitor, being a pallid and rather shabbily dressed lad of twelve, with a brand-new chain and collar in his hand.

“You see,” he was confiding to the bored kennel-man who had been detailed by the foreman to take him around the kennels, “when I got the check from Uncle Dick this morning, I made up my mind, first thing, to buy a dog with it, even if it took every cent.  But then I got to thinking I’d need something to fasten him with, so he wouldn’t run away before he learned to like me and want to stay with me.  So when I got the check cashed at the store, I got this collar and chain.”

“Are you a friend of the boss?” asked the kennel-man.

“The boss?” echoed the boy.  “You mean the man who owns this place?  No, sir.  But when I’ve walked past, on the road, I’ve seen his ‘Collies for Sale’ sign, lots of times.  Once I saw some of them being exercised.  They were the wonderfulest dogs I ever saw.  So the minute I got the money for the check, I came here.  I told the man in the front yard I wanted to buy a dog.  He’s the one who turned me over to you.  I wish—­Oh!” he broke off in rapture, coming to a halt in front of Lass’s run.  “Look!  Isn’t he a dandy?”

Lass had trotted hospitably forward to greet the guest.  Now she was standing on her hind legs, her front paws alternately supporting her fragile weight on the wire of the fence and waving welcomingly toward the boy.  Unknowingly, she was bidding for a master.  And her wistful friendliness struck a note of response in the little fellow’s heart.  For he, too, was lonesome, much of the time, as is the fate of a sickly only child in an overbusy home.  And he had the true craving of the lonely for dog comradeship.

He thrust his none-too-clean hand through the wire mesh and patted the puppy’s silky head.  Lass wiggled ecstatically under the unfamiliar caress.  All at once, in the boy’s eyes, she became quite the most wonderful animal and the very most desirable pet on earth.

“He’s great!” sighed the youngster in admiration; adding naïvely:  “Is he Champion Rothsay Chief—­the one whose picture was in The Bulletin last Sunday?”

The kennel-man laughed noisily.  Then he checked his mirth, for professional reasons, as he remembered the nature of the boy’s quest and foresaw a bare possibility of getting rid of the unwelcome Lass.

“Nope,” he said.  “This isn’t Chief.  If it was, I guess your Uncle Dick’s check would have to have four figures in it before you could make a deal.  But this is one of Chief’s daughters.  This is Rothsay Lass.  A grand little girl, ain’t she?  Say,”—­in a confidential whisper,—­“since you’ve took a fancy for her, maybe I could coax the old man into lettin’ you have her at an easy price.  He was plannin’ to sell her for a hundred or so.  But he goes pretty much by what I say.  He might let her go for—­How much of a check did you say your uncle sent you?”