That's him," assented Link. "Only dawg I've got. Only dawg
I ever had. Only dawg I ever want to have. He's--"
But the postmaster was not attending. His time was limited. So,
taking out a fountain pen, he had begun to scribble on the blank.
Filling in Link's name and address, he wrote, in the "breed and
sex" spaces, the words, "Scotch collie, sable-and-white, male."
"Name?" he queried, breaking in on Ferris's rambling eulogy.
"Huh?" asked the surprised Link, adding: "Oh, his name, hey? I
call him 'Chum.' You see, that dawg's more like a chum to me
than--"
"No use asking about his pedigree, I suppose," resumed the
postmaster, "I mean who his parents were and--"
"Nope," said Link. "I--I found him. His leg was--"
"Pedigree unknown," wrote the postmaster; then, "What classes are
you entering him for?"
"Classes?" repeated Link dully. "Why, I just want to put him into
that contest for 'best dawg,' you see. He--"
"Hold on!" interposed the postmaster impatiently. "You don't
catch the idea. In each breed there are a certain number of
classes: 'Puppy,' 'Novice,' 'Limit,' 'Open,' and so on.
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