“I–I–unknown, sir,” says Nolan. And “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” writes it down.
“Breeder?” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir.”
“Unknown,” says Nolan, getting very red around the jaws, and I drops my head and tail. And “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” writes that down.
“Mother’s name?” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir.”
“She was a–unknown,” says the Master. And I licks his hand.
“Dam unknown,” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” and writes it down. Then he takes the paper and reads out loud: “’Sire unknown, dam unknown, breeder unknown, date of birth unknown.’ You’d better call him the ‘Great Unknown,’” says he. “Who’s paying his entrance fee?”
“I am,” says Miss Dorothy.
Two weeks after we all got on a train for New York, Jimmy Jocks and me following Nolan in the smoking-car, and twenty-two of the St. Bernards in boxes and crates and on chains and leashes. Such a barking and howling I never did hear; and when they sees me going, too, they laughs fit to kill.
“Wot is this–a circus?” says the railroad man.
But I had no heart in it. I hated to go. I knew I was no “show” dog, even though Miss Dorothy and the Master did their best to keep me from shaming them. For before we set out Miss Dorothy brings a man from town who scrubbed and rubbed me, and sandpapered my tail, which hurt most awful, and shaved my ears with the Master’s razor, so you could ’most see clear through ’em, and sprinkles me over with pipe-clay, till I shines like a Tommy’s cross-belts.