“Well--what's your name--Nolan? Well, Nolan, these references are
satisfactory,” said the young gentleman. My new Master called “Mr.
Wyndham, sir.”
“I'll take you on as second man. You can begin to-day.”
My new Master shuffled his feet, and put his finger to his forehead.
“Thank you, sir,” says he. Then he choked like he had swallowed a
fish-bone. “I have a little dawg, sir,” says he.
“You can't keep him,” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” very short.
“'Es only a puppy, sir,” says my new Master; “'e wouldn't go outside the
stables, sir.”
“It's not that,” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir;” “I have a large kennel of very
fine dogs; they're the best of their breed in America. I don't allow
strange dogs on the premises.”
The Master shakes his head, and motions me with his cap, and I crept out
from behind the door. “I'm sorry, sir,” says the Master. “Then I can't
take the place. I can't get along without the dog, sir.”
“Mr. Wyndham, sir,” looked at me that fierce that I guessed he was going
to whip me, so I turned over on my back and begged with my legs and
tail.
“Why, you beat him!” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” very stern.
“No fear!” the Master says, getting very red. “The party I bought him
off taught him that. He never learnt that from me!” He picked me up in
his arms, and to show “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” how well I loved the Master, I
bit his chin and hands.
“Mr. Wyndham, sir,” turned over the letters the Master had given him.
“Well, these references certainly are very strong,” he says. “I guess
I'll let the dog stay this time. Only see you keep him away from the
kennels--or you'll both go.”
“Thank you, sir,” says the Master, grinning like a cat when she's safe
behind the area-railing.
“He's not a bad bull-terrier,” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” feeling my head.
“Not that I know much about the smooth-coated breeds. My dogs are St.
Bernards.” He stopped patting me and held up my nose. “What's the matter
with his ears?” he says. “They're chewed to pieces. Is this a fighting
dog?” he asks, quick and rough-like.
I could have laughed. If he hadn't been holding my nose, I certainly
would have had a good grin at him. Me, the best under thirty pounds in
the Province of Quebec, and him asking if I was a fighting dog! I ran to
the Master and hung down my head modest-like, waiting for him to tell
my list of battles, but the Master he coughs in his cap most painful.
“Fightin' dog, sir,” he cries. “Lor' bless you, sir, the Kid don't
know the word. 'Es just a puppy, sir, same as you see; a pet dog, so to
speak. 'Es a regular old lady's lap-dog, the Kid is.”
“Well, you keep him away from my St. Bernards,” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,”
“or they might make a mouthful of him.”
“Yes, sir, that they might,” says the Master. But when we gets outside
he slaps his knee and laughs inside hisself, and winks at me most
sociable.
The Master's new home was in the country, in a province they called Long
Island. There was a high stone wall about his home with big iron gates
to it, same as Godfrey's brewery; and there was a house with five red
roofs, and the stables, where I lived, was cleaner than the aerated
bakery-shop, and then there was the kennels, but they was like nothing
else in this world that ever I see. For the first days I couldn't sleep
of nights for fear someone would catch me lying in such a cleaned-up
place, and would chase me out of it, and when I did fall to sleep I'd
dream I was back in the old Master's attic, shivering under the rusty
stove, which never had no coals in it, with the Master flat on his
back on the cold floor with his clothes on. And I'd wake up, scared and
whimpering, and find myself on the new Master's cot with his hand on
the quilt beside me; and I'd see the glow of the big stove, and hear the
high-quality horses below-stairs stamping in their straw-lined boxes,
and I'd snoop the sweet smell of hay and harness-soap, and go to sleep
again.
The stables was my jail, so the Master said, but I don't ask no better
home than that jail.
“Now, Kid,” says he, sitting on the top of a bucket upside down, “you've
got to understand this. When I whistle it means you're not to go out of
this 'ere yard. These stables is your jail. And if you leave 'em I'll
have to leave 'em, too, and over the seas, in the County Mayo, an old
mother will 'ave to leave her bit of a cottage. For two pounds I must
be sending her every month, or she'll have naught to eat, nor no thatch
over 'er head; so, I can't lose my place, Kid, an' see you don't lose it
for me. You must keep away from the kennels,” says he; “they're not for
the likes of you. The kennels are for the quality. I wouldn't take a
litter of them woolly dogs for one wag of your tail, Kid, but for all
that they are your betters, same as the gentry up in the big house are
my betters. I know my place and keep away from the gentry, and you keep
away from the Champions.”
So I never goes out of the stables. All day I just lay in the sun on
the stone flags, licking my jaws, and watching the grooms wash down the
carriages, and the only care I had was to see they didn't get gay and
turn the hose on me. There wasn't even a single rat to plague me. Such
stables I never did see.
“Nolan,” says the head-groom, “some day that dog of yours will give you
the slip. You can't keep a street-dog tied up all his life. It's against
his natur'.” The head-groom is a nice old gentleman, but he doesn't know
everything. Just as though I'd been a street-dog because I liked it. As
if I'd rather poke for my vittles in ash-heaps than have 'em handed
me in a wash-basin, and would sooner bite and fight than be polite and
sociable. If I'd had mother there I couldn't have asked for nothing
more. But I'd think of her snooping in the gutters, or freezing of
nights under the bridges, or, what's worse of all, running through the
hot streets with her tongue down, so wild and crazy for a drink, that
the people would shout “mad dog” at her, and stone her. Water's so good,
that I don't blame the men-folks for locking it up inside their houses,
but when the hot days come, I think they might remember that those are
the dog-days and leave a little water outside in a trough, like they
do for the horses. Then we wouldn't go mad, and the policemen wouldn't
shoot us. I had so much of everything I wanted that it made me think a
lot of the days when I hadn't nothing, and if I could have given what I
had to mother, as she used to share with me, I'd have been the happiest
dog in the land. Not that I wasn't happy then, and most grateful to the
Master, too, and if I'd only minded him, the trouble wouldn't have come
again.
But one day the coachman says that the little lady they called Miss
Dorothy had come back from school, and that same morning she runs over
to the stables to pat her ponies, and she sees me.
“Oh, what a nice little, white little dog,” said she; “whose little dog
are you?” says she.
“That's my dog, miss,” says the Master. “'Is name is Kid,” and I ran up
to her most polite, and licks her fingers, for I never see so pretty and
kind a lady.
“You must come with me and call on my new puppies,” says she, picking me
up in her arms and starting off with me.
“Oh, but please, Miss,” cries Nolan, “Mr. Wyndham give orders that the
Kid's not to go to the kennels.”
“That'll be all right,” says the little lady; “they're my kennels too.
And the puppies will like to play with him.”
You wouldn't believe me if I was to tell you of the style of them
quality-dogs. If I hadn't seen it myself I wouldn't have believed it
neither. The Viceroy of Canada don't live no better. There was forty of
them, but each one had his own house and a yard--most exclusive--and
a cot and a drinking-basin all to hisself. They had servants standing
'round waiting to feed 'em when they was hungry, and valets to wash 'em;
and they had their hair combed and brushed like the grooms must when
they go out on the box. Even the puppies had overcoats with their
names on 'em in blue letters, and the name of each of those they called
champions was painted up fine over his front door just like it was a
public-house or a veterinary's. They were the biggest St. Bernards I
ever did see. I could have walked under them if they'd have let me. But
they were very proud and haughty dogs, and looked only once at me, and
then sniffed in the air. The little lady's own dog was an old gentleman
bull-dog. He'd come along with us, and when he notices how taken aback
I was with all I see, 'e turned quite kind and affable and showed me
about.
“Jimmy Jocks,” Miss Dorothy called him, but, owing to his weight, he
walked most dignified and slow, waddling like a duck as you might say,
and looked much too proud and handsome for such a silly name.
“That's the runway, and that's the Trophy House,” says he to me,
“and that over there is the hospital, where you have to go if you get
distemper, and the vet. gives you beastly medicine.”
“And which of these is your 'ouse, sir?” asks I, wishing to be
respectful. But he looked that hurt and haughty. “I don't live in the
kennels,” says he, most contemptuous. “I am a house-dog. I sleep in Miss
Dorothy's room. And at lunch I'm let in with the family, if the visitors
don't mind. They most always do, but they're too polite to say so.
Besides,” says he, smiling most condescending, “visitors are always
afraid of me. It's because I'm so ugly,” says he. “I suppose,” says
he, screwing up his wrinkles and speaking very slow and impressive, “I
suppose I'm the ugliest bull-dog in America,” and as he seemed to be so
pleased to think hisself so, I said, “Yes, sir, you certainly are the
ugliest ever I see,” at which he nodded his head most approving.
“But I couldn't hurt 'em, as you say,” he goes on, though I hadn't said
nothing like that, being too polite. “I'm too old,” he says; “I haven't
any teeth. The last time one of those grizzly bears,” said he, glaring
at the big St. Bernards, “took a hold of me, he nearly was my death,”
says he. I thought his eyes would pop out of his head, he seemed so
wrought up about it. “He rolled me around in the dirt, he did,” says
Jimmy Jocks, “an' I couldn't get up. It was low,” says Jimmy Jocks,
making a face like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Low, that's what
I call it, bad form, you understand, young man, not done in our
circles--and--and low.” He growled, way down in his stomach, and puffed
hisself out, panting and blowing like he had been on a run.
“I'm not a street-fighter,” he says, scowling at a St. Bernard marked
“Champion.” “And when my rheumatism is not troubling me,” he says, “I
endeavor to be civil to all dogs, so long as they are gentlemen.”
“Yes, sir,” said I, for even to me he had been most affable.
At this we had come to a little house off by itself and Jimmy Jocks
invites me in. “This is their trophy-room,” he says, “where they keep
their prizes. Mine,” he says, rather grand-like, “are on the sideboard.”
Not knowing what a sideboard might be, I said, “Indeed, sir, that must
be very gratifying.” But he only wrinkled up his chops as much as to
say, “It is my right.”
The trophy-room was as wonderful as any public-house I ever see. On the
walls was pictures of nothing but beautiful St. Bernard dogs, and rows
and rows of blue and red and yellow ribbons; and when I asked Jimmy
Jocks why they was so many more of blue than of the others, he laughs
and says, “Because these kennels always win.” And there was many shining
cups on the shelves which Jimmy Jocks told me were prizes won by the
champions.
“Now, sir, might I ask you, sir,” says I, “wot is a champion?”
At that he panted and breathed so hard I thought he would bust hisself.
“My dear young friend!” says he. “Wherever have you been educated? A
champion is a--a champion,” he says. “He must win nine blue ribbons in
the 'open' class. You follow me--that is--against all comers. Then
he has the title before his name, and they put his photograph in the
sporting papers. You know, of course, that _I_ am a champion,” says
he. “I am Champion Woodstock Wizard III., and the two other Woodstock
Wizards, my father and uncle, were both champions.”
“But I thought your name was Jimmy Jocks,” I said.
He laughs right out at that.
“That's my kennel name, not my registered name,” he says. “Why, you
certainly know that every dog has two names. Now, what's your registered
name and number, for instance?” says he.
“I've only got one name,” I says. “Just Kid.”
Woodstock Wizard puffs at that and wrinkles up his forehead and pops out
his eyes.
“Who are your people?” says he. “Where is your home?”
“At the stable, sir,” I said. “My Master is the second groom.”
At that Woodstock Wizard III. looks at me for quite a bit without
winking, and stares all around the room over my head.
“Oh, well,” says he at last, “you're a very civil young dog,” says he,
“and I blame no one for what he can't help,” which I thought most fair
and liberal. “And I have known many bullterriers that were champions,”
says he, “though as a rule they mostly run with fire-engines, and to
fighting. For me, I wouldn't care to run through the streets after a
hose-cart, nor to fight,” says he; “but each to his taste.”
I could not help thinking that if Woodstock Wizard III. tried to follow
a fire-engine he would die of apoplexy, and that, seeing he'd lost his
teeth, it was lucky he had no taste for fighting, but, after his being
so condescending, I didn't say nothing.
“Anyway,” says he, “every smooth-coated dog is better than any hairy
old camel like those St. Bernards, and if ever you're hungry down at
the stables, young man, come up to the house and I'll give you a bone.
I can't eat them myself, but I bury them around the garden from force
of habit, and in case a friend should drop in. Ah, I see my Mistress
coming,” he says, “and I bid you good-day. I regret,” he says, “that our
different social position prevents our meeting frequent, for you're a
worthy young dog with a proper respect for your betters, and in this
country there's precious few of them have that.” Then he waddles off,
leaving me alone and very sad, for he was the first dog in many
days that had spoken to me. But since he showed, seeing that I was a
stable-dog, he didn't want my company, I waited for him to get well
away. It was not a cheerful place to wait, the Trophy House. The
pictures of the champions seemed to scowl at me, and ask what right had
such as I even to admire them, and the blue and gold ribbons and the
silver cups made me very miserable. I had never won no blue ribbons or
silver cups; only stakes for the old Master to spend in the publics, and
I hadn't won them for being a beautiful, high-quality dog, but just for
fighting--which, of course, as Woodstock Wizard III. says, is low. So I
started for the stables, with my head down and my tail between my legs,
feeling sorry I had ever left the Master. But I had more reason to be
sorry before I got back to him.
The Trophy House was quite a bit from the kennels, and as I left it I
see Miss Dorothy and Woodstock Wizard III. walking back toward them,
and that a fine, big St. Bernard, his name was Champion Red Elfberg, had
broke his chain, and was running their way. When he reaches old Jimmy
Jocks he lets out a roar like a grain-steamer in a fog, and he makes
three leaps for him. Old Jimmy Jocks was about a fourth his size; but
he plants his feet and curves his back, and his hair goes up around his
neck like a collar. But he never had no show at no time, for the grizzly
bear, as Jimmy Jocks had called him, lights on old Jimmy's back and
tries to break it, and old Jimmy Jocks snaps his gums and claws the
grass, panting and groaning awful. But he can't do nothing, and the
grizzly bear just rolls him under him, biting and tearing cruel. The
odds was all that Woodstock Wizard III. was going to be killed. I had
fought enough to see that, but not knowing the rules of the game among
champions, I didn't like to interfere between two gentlemen who might be
settling a private affair, and, as it were, take it as presuming of me.
So I stood by, though I was shaking terrible, and holding myself in like
I was on a leash. But at that Woodstock Wizard III., who was underneath,
sees me through the dust, and calls very faint, “Help, you!” he says.
“Take him in the hind-leg,” he says. “He's murdering me,” he says.
And then the little Miss Dorothy, who was crying, and calling to the
kennel-men, catches at the Red Elfberg's hind-legs to pull him off, and
the brute, keeping his front pats well in Jimmy's stomach, turns his big
head and snaps at her. So that was all I asked for, thank you. I went
up under him. It was really nothing. He stood so high that I had only
to take off about three feet from him and come in from the side, and my
long, “punishing jaw” as mother was always talking about, locked on his
woolly throat, and my back teeth met. I couldn't shake him, but I shook
myself, and every time I shook myself there was thirty pounds of weight
tore at his windpipes. I couldn't see nothing for his long hair, but
I heard Jimmy Jocks puffing and blowing on one side, and munching the
brute's leg with his old gums. Jimmy was an old sport that day, was
Jimmy, or, Woodstock Wizard III., as I should say. When the Red Elfberg
was out and down I had to run, or those kennel-men would have had my
life. They chased me right into the stables; and from under the hay I
watched the head-groom take down a carriage-whip and order them to the
right about. Luckily Master and the young grooms were out, or that day
there'd have been fighting for everybody.
Well, it nearly did for me and the Master. “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” comes
raging to the stables and said I'd half-killed his best prize-winner,
and had oughter be shot, and he gives the Master his notice. But Miss
Dorothy she follows him, and says it was his Red Elfberg what began the
fight, and that I'd saved Jimmy's life, and that old Jimmy Jocks
was worth more to her than all the St. Bernards in the Swiss
mountains--where-ever they be. And that I was her champion, anyway. Then
she cried over me most beautiful, and over Jimmy Jocks, too, who was
that tied up in bandages he couldn't even waddle. So when he heard that
side of it, “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” told us that if Nolan put me on a chain,
we could stay. So it came out all right for everybody but me. I was glad
the Master kept his place, but I'd never worn a chain before, and it
disheartened me--but that was the least of it. For the quality-dogs
couldn't forgive my whipping their champion, and they came to the fence
between the kennels and the stables, and laughed through the bars,
barking most cruel words at me. I couldn't understand how they found it
out, but they knew. After the fight Jimmy Jocks was most condescending
to me, and he said the grooms had boasted to the kennel-men that I was
a son of Regent Royal, and that when the kennel-men asked who was my
mother they had had to tell them that too. Perhaps that was the way of
it, but, however, the scandal was out, and every one of the quality-dogs
knew that I was a street-dog and the son of a black-and-tan.
“These misalliances will occur,” said Jimmy Jocks, in his old-fashioned
way, “but no well-bred dog,” says he, looking most scornful at the St.
Bernards, who were howling behind the palings, “would refer to your
misfortune before you, certainly not cast it in your face. I, myself,
remember your father's father, when he made his debut at the Crystal
Palace. He took four blue ribbons and three specials.”
But no sooner than Jimmy would leave me, the St. Bernards would take to
howling again, insulting mother and insulting me. And when I tore at my
chain, they, seeing they were safe, would howl the more. It was never
the same after that; the laughs and the jeers cut into my heart, and the
chain bore heavy on my spirit. I was so sad that sometimes I wished I
was back in the gutter again, where no one was better than me, and some
nights I wished I was dead. If it hadn't been for the Master being so
kind, and that it would have looked like I was blaming mother, I would
have twisted my leash and hanged myself.
About a month after my fight, the word was passed through the kennels
that the New York Show was coming, and such goings on as followed I
never did see. If each of them had been matched to fight for a thousand
pounds and the gate, they couldn't have trained more conscientious. But,
perhaps, that's just my envy. The kennel-men rubbed 'em and scrubbed 'em
and trims their hair and curls and combs it, and some dogs they fatted,
and some they starved. No one talked of nothing but the Show, and the
chances “our kennels” had against the other kennels, and if this one of
our champions would win over that one, and whether them as hoped to
be champions had better show in the “open” or the “limit” class, and
whether this dog would beat his own dad, or whether his little puppy
sister couldn't beat the two of them. Even the grooms had their money
up, and day or night you heard nothing but praises of “our” dogs, until
I, being so far out of it, couldn't have felt meaner if I had been
running the streets with a can to my tail. I knew shows were not for
such as me, and so I lay all day stretched at the end of my chain,
pretending I was asleep, and only too glad that they had something so
important to think of, that they could leave me alone.
But one day before the Show opened, Miss Dorothy came to the stables
with “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” and seeing me chained up and so miserable, she
takes me in her arms.
“You poor little tyke,” says she. “It's cruel to tie him up so; he's
eating his heart out, Nolan,” she says. “I don't know nothing about
bull-terriers,” says she, “but I think Kid's got good points,” says she,
“and you ought to show him. Jimmy Jocks has three legs on the Rensselaer
Cup now, and I'm going to show him this time so that he can get the
fourth, and if you wish, I'll enter your dog too. How would you like
that, Kid?” says she. “How would you like to see the most beautiful dogs
in the world? Maybe, you'd meet a pal or two,” says she. “It would cheer
you up, wouldn't it, Kid?” says she. But I was so upset, I could only
wag my tail most violent. “He says it would!” says she, though, being
that excited, I hadn't said nothing.
So, “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” laughs and takes out a piece of blue paper, and
sits down at the head-groom's table.
“What's the name of the father of your dog, Nolan?” says he. And Nolan
says, “The man I got him off told me he was a son of Champion Regent
Royal, sir. But it don't seem likely, does it?” says Nolan.
“It does not!” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” short-like.
“Aren't you sure, Nolan?” says Miss Dorothy.
“No, Miss,” says the Master.
“Sire unknown,” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” and writes it down.
“Date of birth?” asks “Mr. Wyndham, sir.”
“I--I--unknown, sir,” says Nolan. And “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” writes it
down.
“Breeder?” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir.”
“Unknown,” says Nolan, getting very red around the jaws, and I drops my
head and tail. And “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” writes that down.
“Mother's name?” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir.”
“She was a--unknown,” says the Master. And I licks his hand.
“Dam unknown,” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” and writes it down. Then he
takes the paper and reads out loud: “Sire unknown, dam unknown, breeder
unknown, date of birth unknown. You'd better call him the 'Great
Unknown,'” says he. “Who's paying his entrance-fee?”
“I am,” says Miss Dorothy.
Two weeks after we all got on a train for New York; Jimmy Jocks and me
following Nolan in the smoking-car, and twenty-two of the St. Bernards,
in boxes and crates, and on chains and leashes. Such a barking and
howling I never did hear, and when they sees me going, too, they laughs
fit to kill.
“Wot is this; a circus?” says the railroad-man.
But I had no heart in it. I hated to go. I knew I was no “show” dog,
even though Miss Dorothy and the Master did their best to keep me from
shaming them. For before we set out Miss Dorothy brings a man from town
who scrubbed and rubbed me, and sand-papered my tail, which hurt most
awful, and shaved my ears with the Master's razor, so you could most see
clear through 'em, and sprinkles me over with pipe-clay, till I shines
like a Tommy's cross-belts.
“Upon my word!” says Jimmy Jocks when he first sees me. “What a swell
you are! You're the image of your grand-dad when he made his debut at
the Crystal Palace. He took four firsts and three specials.” But I knew
he was only trying to throw heart into me. They might scrub, and they
might rub, and they might pipe-clay, but they couldn't pipe-clay the
insides of me, and they was black-and-tan.
Then we came to a Garden, which it was not, but the biggest hall in the
world. Inside there was lines of benches, a few miles long, and on them
sat every dog in the world. If all the dog-snatchers in Montreal had
worked night and day for a year, they couldn't have caught so many dogs.
And they was all shouting and barking and howling so vicious, that my
heart stopped beating. For at first I thought they was all enraged at my
presuming to intrude, but after I got in my place, they kept at it just
the same, barking at every dog as he come in; daring him to fight, and
ordering him out, and asking him what breed of dog he thought he was,
anyway. Jimmy Jocks was chained just behind me, and he said he never see
so fine a show. “That's a hot class you're in, my lad,” he says, looking
over into my street, where there were thirty bull-terriers. They was all
as white as cream, and each so beautiful that if I could have broke
my chain, I would have run all the way home and hid myself under the
horse-trough.
All night long they talked and sang, and passed greetings with old
pals, and the home-sick puppies howled dismal. Them that couldn't sleep
wouldn't let no others sleep, and all the electric lights burned in the
roof, and in my eyes. I could hear Jimmy Jocks snoring peaceful, but I
could only doze by jerks, and when I dozed I dreamed horrible. All the
dogs in the hall seemed coming at me for daring to intrude, with their
jaws red and open, and their eyes blazing like the lights in the roof.
“You're a street-dog! Get out, you street-dog!” they yells. And as they
drives me out, the pipe-clay drops off me, and they laugh and shriek;
and when I looks down I see that I have turned into a black-and-tan.
They was most awful dreams, and next morning, when Miss Dorothy comes
and gives me water in a pan, I begs and begs her to take me home, but
she can't understand. “How well Kid is!” she says. And when I jumps into
the Master's arms, and pulls to break my chain, he says, “If he knew
all as he had against him, Miss, he wouldn't be so gay.” And from a book
they reads out the names of the beautiful high-bred terriers which I
have got to meet. And I can't make 'em understand that I only want to
run away, and hide myself where no one will see me.
Then suddenly men comes hurrying down our street and begins to brush the
beautiful bull-terriers, and Nolan rubs me with a towel so excited that
his hands trembles awful, and Miss Dorothy tweaks my ears between her
gloves, so that the blood runs to 'em, and they turn pink and stand up
straight and sharp.
“Now, then, Nolan,” says she, her voice shaking just like his fingers,
“keep his head up--and never let the Judge lose sight of him.” When I
hears that my legs breaks under me, for I knows all about judges. Twice,
the old Master goes up before the Judge for fighting me with other dogs,
and the Judge promises him if he ever does it again, he'll chain him
up in jail. I knew he'd find me out. A Judge can't be fooled by no
pipe-clay. He can see right through you, and he reads your insides.
The judging-ring, which is where the Judge holds out, was so like a
fighting-pit, that when I came in it, and find six other dogs there, I
springs into position, so that when they lets us go I can defend myself,
But the Master smoothes down my hair and whispers, “Hold 'ard, Kid, hold
'ard. This ain't a fight,” says he. “Look your prettiest,” he whispers.
“Please, Kid, look your prettiest,” and he pulls my leash so tight that
I can't touch my pats to the sawdust, and my nose goes up in the air.
There was millions of people a-watching us from the railings, and three
of our kennel-men, too, making fun of Nolan and me, and Miss Dorothy
with her chin just reaching to the rail, and her eyes so big that I
thought she was a-going to cry. It was awful to think that when the
Judge stood up and exposed me, all those people, and Miss Dorothy, would
be there to see me driven from the show.
The Judge, he was a fierce-looking man with specs on his nose, and a red
beard. When I first come in he didn't see me owing to my being too quick
for him and dodging behind the Master. But when the Master drags me
round and I pulls at the sawdust to keep back, the Judge looks at us
careless-like, and then stops and glares through his specs, and I knew
it was all up with me.
“Are there any more?” asks the Judge, to the gentleman at the gate, but
never taking his specs from me.
The man at the gate looks in his book. “Seven in the novice-class,” says
he. “They're all here. You can go ahead,” and he shuts the gate.
The Judge, he doesn't hesitate a moment. He just waves his hand toward
the corner of the ring. “Take him away,” he says to the Master. “Over
there and keep him away,” and he turns and looks most solemn at the six
beautiful bull-terriers. I don't know how I crawled to that corner.
I wanted to scratch under the sawdust and dig myself a grave. The
kennel-men they slapped the rail with their hands and laughed at the
Master like they would fall over. They pointed at me in the corner, and
their sides just shaked. But little Miss Dorothy she presses her lips
tight against the rail, and I see tears rolling from her eyes. The
Master, he hangs his head like he had been whipped. I felt most sorry
for him, than all. He was so red, and he was letting on not to see the
kennel-men, and blinking his eyes. If the Judge had ordered me right
out, it wouldn't have disgraced us so, but it was keeping me there while
he was judging the high-bred dogs that hurt so hard. With all those
people staring too. And his doing it so quick, without no doubt nor
questions. You can't fool the judges. They see insides you.
But he couldn't make up his mind about them high-bred dogs. He scowls at
'em, and he glares at 'em, first with his head on the one side and then
on the other. And he feels of 'em, and orders 'em to run about. And
Nolan leans against the rails, with his head hung down, and pats me. And
Miss Dorothy comes over beside him, but don't say nothing, only wipes
her eye with her finger. A man on the other side of the rail he says to
the Master, “The Judge don't like your dog?”
“No,” says the Master.
“Have you ever shown him before?” says the man.
“No,” says the Master, “and I'll never show him again. He's my dog,”
says the Master, “an' he suits me! And I don't care what no judges
think.” And when he says them kind words, I licks his hand most
grateful.
The Judge had two of the six dogs on a little platform in the middle of
the ring, and he had chased the four other dogs into the corners, where
they was licking their chops, and letting on they didn't care, same as
Nolan was.
The two dogs on the platform was so beautiful that the Judge hisself
couldn't tell which was the best of 'em, even when he stoops down and
holds their heads together. But at last he gives a sigh, and brushes the
sawdust off his knees and goes to the table in the ring, where there was
a man keeping score, and heaps and heaps of blue and gold and red and
yellow ribbons. And the Judge picks up a bunch of 'em and walks to the
two gentlemen who was holding the beautiful dogs, and he says to each
“What's his number?” and he hands each gentleman a ribbon. And then he
turned sharp, and comes straight at the Master.
“What's his number?” says the Judge. And Master was so scared that he
couldn't make no answer.
But Miss Dorothy claps her hands and cries out like she was laughing,
“Three twenty-six,” and the Judge writes it down, and shoves Master the
blue ribbon.
I bit the Master, and I jumps and bit Miss Dorothy, and I waggled so
hard that the Master couldn't hold me. When I get to the gate Miss
Dorothy snatches me up and kisses me between the ears, right before
millions of people, and they both hold me so tight that I didn't know
which of them was carrying of me. But one thing I knew, for I listened
hard, as it was the Judge hisself as said it.
“Did you see that puppy I gave 'first' to?” says the Judge to the
gentleman at the gate.
“I did. He was a bit out of his class,” says the gate-gentleman.
“He certainly was!” says the Judge, and they both laughed.
But I didn't care. They couldn't hurt me then, not with Nolan holding
the blue ribbon and Miss Dorothy hugging my ears, and the kennel-men
sneaking away, each looking like he'd been caught with his nose under
the lid of the slop-can.
We sat down together, and we all three just talked as fast as we could.
They was so pleased that I couldn't help feeling proud myself, and I
barked and jumped and leaped about so gay, that all the bull-terriers in
our street stretched on their chains, and howled at me.
“Just look at him!” says one of those I had beat. “What's he giving
hisself airs about?”
“Because he's got one blue ribbon!” says another of 'em. “Why, when I
was a puppy I used to eat 'em, and if that Judge could ever learn to
know a toy from a mastiff, I'd have had this one.”
But Jimmy Jocks he leaned over from his bench, and says, “Well done,
Kid. Didn't I tell you so!” What he 'ad told me was that I might get a
“commended,” but I didn't remind him.
“Didn't I tell you,” says Jimmy Jocks, “that I saw your grandfather make
his debut at the Crystal--”
“Yes, sir, you did, sir,” says I, for I have no love for the men of my
family.
A gentleman with a showing leash around his neck comes up just then and
looks at me very critical. “Nice dog you've got, Miss Wyndham,” says he;
“would you care to sell him?”
“He's not my dog,” says Miss Dorothy, holding me tight. “I wish he
were.”
“He's not for sale, sir,” says the Master, and I was that glad.
“Oh, he's yours, is he?” says the gentleman, looking hard at Nolan.
“Well, I'll give you a hundred dollars for him,” says he, careless-like.
“Thank you, sir, he's not for sale,” says Nolan, but his eyes get very
big. The gentleman, he walked away, but I watches him, and he talks to a
man in a golf-cap, and by and by the man comes along our street, looking
at all the dogs, and stops in front of me.
“This your dog?” says he to Nolan. “Pity he's so leggy,” says he. “If he
had a good tail, and a longer stop, and his ears were set higher, he'd
be a good dog. As he is, I'll give you fifty dollars for him.”
But before the Master could speak, Miss Dorothy laughs, and says,
“You're Mr. Polk's kennel-man, I believe. Well, you tell Mr. Polk from
me that the dog's not for sale now any more than he was five minutes
ago, and that when he is, he'll have to bid against me for him.” The man
looks foolish at that, but he turns to Nolan quick-like. “I'll give you
three hundred for him,” he says.
“Oh, indeed!” whispers Miss Dorothy, like she was talking to herself.
“That's it, is it,” and she turns and looks at me just as though she had
never seen me before. Nolan, he was a gaping, too, with his mouth open.
But he holds me tight.
“He's not for sale,” he growls, like he was frightened, and the man
looks black and walks away.
“Why, Nolan!” cries Miss Dorothy, “Mr. Polk knows more about
bull-terriers than any amateur in America. What can he mean? Why, Kid is
no more than a puppy! Three hundred dollars for a puppy!”
“And he ain't no thoroughbred neither!” cries the Master. “He's
'Unknown,' ain't he? Kid can't help it, of course, but his mother,
Miss--”
I dropped my head. I couldn't bear he should tell Miss Dorothy. I
couldn't bear she should know I had stolen my blue ribbon.
But the Master never told, for at that, a gentleman runs up, calling,
“Three Twenty-Six, Three Twenty-Six,” and Miss Dorothy says, “Here he
is, what is it?”
“The Winner's Class,” says the gentleman “Hurry, please. The Judge is
waiting for him.”
Nolan tries to get me off the chain onto a showing leash, but he shakes
so, he only chokes me. “What is it, Miss?” he says. “What is it?”
“The Winner's Class,” says Miss Dorothy. “The Judge wants him with the
winners of the other classes--to decide which is the best. It's only a
form,” says she. “He has the champions against him now.”
“Yes,” says the gentleman, as he hurries us to the ring. “I'm afraid
it's only a form for your dog, but the Judge wants all the winners,
puppy class even.”
We had got to the gate, and the gentleman there was writing down my
number.
“Who won the open?” asks Miss Dorothy.
“Oh, who would?” laughs the gentleman. “The old champion, of course.
He's won for three years now. There he is. Isn't he wonderful?” says he,
and he points to a dog that's standing proud and haughty on the platform
in the middle of the ring.
I never see so beautiful a dog, so fine and clean and noble, so white
like he had rolled hisself in flour, holding his nose up and his eyes
shut, same as though no one was worth looking at. Aside of him, we other
dogs, even though we had a blue ribbon apiece, seemed like lumps of mud.
He was a royal gentleman, a king, he was. His Master didn't have to hold
his head with no leash. He held it hisself, standing as still as an iron
dog on a lawn, like he knew all the people was looking at him. And so
they was, and no one around the ring pointed at no other dog but him.
“Oh, what a picture,” cried Miss Dorothy; “he's like a marble figure by
a great artist--one who loved dogs. Who is he?” says she, looking in her
book. “I don't keep up with terriers.”
“Oh, you know him,” says the gentleman. “He is the Champion of
champions, Regent Royal.”
The Master's face went red.
“And this is Regent Royal's son,” cries he, and he pulls me quick into
the ring, and plants me on the platform next my father.
I trembled so that I near fall. My legs twisted like a leash. But my
father he never looked at me. He only smiled, the same sleepy smile, and
he still keep his eyes half-shut, like as no one, no, not even his son,
was worth his lookin' at.
The Judge, he didn't let me stay beside my father, but, one by one, he
placed the other dogs next to him and measured and felt and pulled at
them. And each one he put down, but he never put my father down. And
then he comes over and picks up me and sets me back on the platform,
shoulder to shoulder with the Champion Regent Royal, and goes down on
his knees, and looks into our eyes.
The gentleman with my father, he laughs, and says to the Judge,
“Thinking of keeping us here all day. John?” but the Judge, he doesn't
hear him, and goes behind us and runs his hand down my side, and holds
back my ears, and takes my jaws between his fingers. The crowd around
the ring is very deep now, and nobody says nothing. The gentleman at the
score-table, he is leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, and
his eyes very wide, and the gentleman at the gate is whispering quick to
Miss Dorothy, who has turned white. I stood as stiff as stone. I didn't
even breathe. But out of the corner of my eye I could see my father
licking his pink chops, and yawning just a little, like he was bored.
The Judge, he had stopped looking fierce, and was looking solemn.
Something inside him seemed a troubling him awful. The more he stares
at us now, the more solemn he gets, and when he touches us he does
it gentle, like he was patting us. For a long time he kneels in the
sawdust, looking at my father and at me, and no one around the ring says
nothing to nobody.
Then the Judge takes a breath and touches me sudden. “It's his,” he
says, but he lays his hand just as quick on my father. “I'm sorry,” says
he.
The gentleman holding my father cries:
“Do you mean to tell me--”
And the Judge, he answers, “I mean the other is the better dog.” He
takes my father's head between his hands and looks down at him, most
sorrowful. “The King is dead,” says he, “long live the King. Good-by,
Regent,” he says.
The crowd around the railings clapped their hands, and some laughed
scornful, and everyone talks fast, and I start for the gate so dizzy
that I can't see my way. But my father pushes in front of me, walking
very daintily, and smiling sleepy, same as he had just been waked, with
his head high, and his eyes shut, looking at nobody.
So that is how I “came by my inheritance,” as Miss Dorothy calls it,
and just for that, though I couldn't feel where I was any different, the
crowd follows me to my bench, and pats me, and coos at me, like I was a
baby in a baby-carriage. And the handlers have to hold 'em back so that
the gentlemen from the papers can make pictures of me, and Nolan walks
me up and down so proud, and the men shakes their heads and says, “He
certainly is the true type, he is!” And the pretty ladies asks Miss
Dorothy, who sits beside me letting me lick her gloves to show the crowd
what friends we is, “Aren't you afraid he'll bite you?” and Jimmy Jocks
calls to me, “Didn't I tell you so! I always knew you were one of us.
Blood will out, Kid, blood will out. I saw your grandfather,” says he,
“make his debut at the Crystal Palace. But he was never the dog you
are!”
After that, if I could have asked for it, there was nothing I couldn't
get. You might have thought I was a snow-dog, and they was afeerd I'd
melt. If I wet my pats, Nolan gave me a hot bath and chained me to the
stove; if I couldn't eat my food, being stuffed full by the cook, for
I am a house-dog now, and let in to lunch whether there is visitors or
not, Nolan would run to bring the vet. It was all tommy-rot, as Jimmy
says, but meant most kind. I couldn't scratch myself comfortable,
without Nolan giving me nasty drinks, and rubbing me outside till it
burnt awful, and I wasn't let to eat bones for fear of spoiling my
“beautiful” mouth, what mother used to call my “punishing jaw,” and my
food was cooked special on a gas-stove, and Miss Dorothy gives me an
overcoat, cut very stylish like the champions', to wear when we goes out
carriage-driving.
After the next show, where I takes three blue ribbons, four silver cups,
two medals, and brings home forty-five dollars for Nolan, they gives
me a “Registered” name, same as Jimmy's. Miss Dorothy wanted to call me
“Regent Heir Apparent,” but I was THAT glad when Nolan says, “No, Kid
don't owe nothing to his father, only to you and hisself. So, if you
please, Miss, we'll call him Wyndham Kid.” And so they did, and you can
see it on my overcoat in blue letters, and painted top of my kennel. It
was all too hard to understand. For days I just sat and wondered if I
was really me, and how it all come about, and why everybody was so kind.
But, oh, it was so good they was, for if they hadn't been, I'd never
have got the thing I most wished after. But, because they was kind, and
not liking to deny me nothing, they gave it me, and it was more to me
than anything in the world.
It came about one day when we was out driving. We was in the cart they
calls the dog-cart, because it's the one Miss Dorothy keeps to take
Jimmy and me for an airing. Nolan was up behind, and me in my new
overcoat was sitting beside Miss Dorothy. I was admiring the view, and
thinking how good it was to have a horse pull you about so that you
needn't get yourself splashed and have to be washed, when I hears a
dog calling loud for help, and I pricks up my ears and looks over the
horse's head. And I sees something that makes me tremble down to my
toes. In the road before us three big dogs was chasing a little, old
lady-dog. She had a string to her tail, where some boys had tied a can,
and she was dirty with mud and ashes, and torn most awful. She was too
far done up to get away, and too old to help herself, but she was making
a fight for her life, snapping her old gums savage, and dying game. All
this I see in a wink, and then the three dogs pinned her down, and I
can't stand it no longer and clears the wheel and lands in the road on
my head. It was my stylish overcoat done that, and I curse it proper,
but I gets my pats again quick, and makes a rush for the fighting.
Behind me I hear Miss Dorothy cry, “They'll kill that old dog. Wait,
take my whip. Beat them off her! The Kid can take care of himself,” and
I hear Nolan fall into the road, and the horse come to a stop. The old
lady-dog was down, and the three was eating her vicious, but as I come
up, scattering the pebbles, she hears, and thinking it's one more of
them, she lifts her head and my heart breaks open like someone had sunk
his teeth in it. For, under the ashes and the dirt and the blood, I can
see who it is, and I know that my mother has come back to me.