So they compromised by getting the collie.
He reached the Place in a crampy and smelly crate; preceded by a long envelope containing an intricate and imposing pedigree.

The burglary-preventing problem seemed solved.
But when the crate was opened and its occupant stepped gravely forth, on the Place's veranda, the problem was revived.
All the Master and the Mistress had known about the newcomer,--apart from his price and lofty lineage,--was that his breeder had named him "Lad." From these meager facts they had somehow built up a picture of a huge and grimly ferocious animal that should be a terror to all intruders and that might in time be induced to make friends with the Place's vouched-for occupants.

In view of this, they had had a stout kennel made and to it they had affixed with double staples a chain strong enough to restrain a bull.
(It may as well be said here that never in all the sixteen years of his beautiful life did Lad occupy that or any other kennel nor wear that or any other chain.) Even the crate which brought the new dog to the Place failed somehow to destroy the illusion of size and fierceness.

But, the moment the crate door was opened the delusion was wrecked by Lad himself.
Out on to the porch he walked.

The ramshackle crate behind him had a ridiculous air of a chrysalis from which some bright thing had departed.