“Why, Nolan!” cries Miss Dorothy, “Mr. Polk knows more about bull-terriers than any amateur in America. What can he mean? Why, Kid is no more than a puppy! Three hundred dollars for a puppy!”
“And he ain’t no thoroughbred, neither!” cries the Master. “He’s ‘Unknown,’ ain’t he? Kid can’t help it, of course, but his mother, miss–”
I dropped my head. I couldn’t bear he should tell Miss Dorothy. I couldn’t bear she should know I had stolen my blue ribbon.
But the Master never told, for at that a gentleman runs up, calling, “Three twenty-six, three twenty-six!” And Miss Dorothy says, “Here he is; what is it?”
“The Winners’ class,” says the gentleman. “Hurry, please; the judge is waiting for him.”
Nolan tries to get me off the chain on to a showing-leash, but he shakes so, he only chokes me. “What is it, miss?” he says. “What is it?”
“The Winners’ 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.