After the parade was over, a lot of us dogs and boys went down to the lot where the show was to be held. We were hanging around the tent where the actors were eating, and that bloodhound dog was there without chains like any other dog, and us dogs got to talking with him.
“You country-town dogs,” he says to Mutt Mulligan, who is a friend of mine and some considerable dog himself, “don't want to come fussin' around too close to my cook tent or my show! Us troupers ain't got any too much use for you hick dogs, anyhow.”
“Oh, it's your show, is it?” says Mutt.
“Whose show did you think it was?” says that bloodhound dog, very haughty.
“1 thought from all those chains and things, maybe the show owned you, instead of you owning the show,” says Mutt.
“You saw who led that street parade, didn't you?” says the bloodhound dog. “Well, that ought to tell you who the chief actor of this show is. This here show is built up around me. If anything was to happen to me, there couldn't be any show.”
Mutt, he gave me a signal with his tail to edge in a little closer, and I sidled up to where I could grab a front leg unexpected to him, if he made a pass at Mutt. And then Mutt says, sneering so his teeth stuck out and his nose wrinkled:
“Something's goin' to happen to you, if you ain't more polite and peaceable in your talk.”
“What's goin' to happen to me?” says that bloodhound dog.
“Don't you let them bristles rise around your neck,” says Mutt, “or you'll find out what's goin' to happen to you.”