“Yes, sir,” said I, for even to me he had been most affable.
At this we had come to a little house off by itself, and Jimmy Jocks invites me in. “This is their trophy-room,” he says, “where they keep their prizes. Mine,” he says, rather grand-like, “are on the sideboard.” Not knowing what a sideboard might be, I said, “Indeed, sir, that must be very gratifying.” But he only wrinkled up his chops as much as to say, “It is my right.”
The trophy-room was as wonderful as any public house I ever see. On the walls was pictures of nothing but beautiful St. Bernard dogs, and rows and rows of blue and red and yellow ribbons; and when I asked Jimmy Jocks why they was so many more of blue than of the others, he laughs and says, “Because these kennels always win.” And there was many shining cups on the shelves, which Jimmy Jocks told me were prizes won by the champions.
“Now, sir, might I ask you, sir,” says I, “wot is a champion?”
At that he panted and breathed so hard I thought he would bust hisself. “My dear young friend!” says he, “wherever have you been educated? A champion is a–a champion,” he says. “He must win nine blue ribbons in the ‘open’ class. You follow me–that is–against all comers. Then he has the title before his name, and they put his photograph in the sporting papers. You know, of course, that I am a champion,” says he. “I am Champion Woodstock Wizard III, and the two other Woodstock Wizards, my father and uncle, were both champions.”
“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, certainly you know that every dog has two names. Now, for instance, what’s your registered name and number?” says he.
“I’ve got only one name,” I says. “Just Kid.”
Woodstock Wizard puffs at that and wrinkles up his forehead and pops out his eyes.