“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.