“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.