Gringo got third prize. I was surprised to hear how many events the modest old dog had been in. He was chained next to me, and his remarks on the show were killing. He loathed vain dogs—these fellows who adore shows, and when the travelling boxes are brought out, bark with excitement, and on arriving, bask all day long in popular approval.
I had honourable mention. Gringo thought I would get a prize, but when I looked round the show, I said, “Some of these fellows here will ride rough-shod over me. It’s amazing what a sum of fidelity to the human race they represent.”
The event of the show to me was, as I had anticipated, the finding out of my value. I was adjudged the best dog of all breeds shown, and my value was placed at seven thousand dollars. How I regretted this. Coarse, sporty looking men, who bestowed not a glance on the noble animals who had saved precious lives, came and stood before me with their beefy faces alight with interest. Most unfortunately, however, it was not the sporting class that took the keenest interest in me. Those men were rough but honest. Two young men of the white-faced, putty-looking class that master and Mr. Bonstone dread so much to handle, made me tremble.
They did not come up and stand before me, to admire me and ask questions. They stood a long way off, and they got a boy to go and ask an attendant particularly where I lived. I knew I should have trouble with them some time in the future, and I vowed that they would be pretty clever to catch me napping. Both days I was at the show, they came several times to stare at me surreptitiously, and the second day, they brought another fellow of their own class with them.
I tried not to worry, and repeated to myself something that master often murmurs when he is putting on his shoes to go down town. “Where are the worries I had this time last year? Gone with the snows of winter, and the roses of summer. Therefore, why worry over the worries of to-day?”
The pleasantest thing about the show was, of course, the twice-a-day visits of our owners. The second day, Mr. Bonstone approached our bench accompanied by Mrs. Waverlee, Egbert and a tall old gentleman who limped quite a bit.
“Wooden leg,” muttered Gringo. “It’s the boy’s grandfather.”
I had told Gringo of his master’s interest in the portrait of the old baronet. He was as keenly interested as I was, and with me, concluded that Mrs. Waverlee was correct. Mr. Bonstone was her cousin.
“Why don’t they out with it?” said the old dog—“I hate secrets.”