“That very dog’s father,” says the pal, “is Regent Royal, son of Champion Regent Monarch, champion bull-terrier of England for four years.”
“He’s a coward, I’ve done with him.”
I was sore, and torn, and chewed most awful, but what the pal said sounded so fine that I wanted to wag my tail, only couldn’t, owing to my hanging from it.
But the Master calls out: “Yes, his father was Regent Royal; who’s saying he wasn’t? but the pup’s a cowardly cur, that’s what his pup is. And why? I’ll tell you why: because his mother was a black-and-tan street-dog, that’s why!”
I don’t see how I got the strength, but, someway, I threw myself out of the Master’s grip and fell at his feet, and turned over and fastened all my teeth in his ankle, just across the bone.
When I woke, after the pals had kicked me off him, I was in the smoking-car of a railroad-train, lying in the lap of the little groom, and he was rubbing my open wounds with a greasy yellow stuff, exquisite to the smell and most agreeable to lick off.
PART II
“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.