“But I couldn’t hurt ’em, as you say,” he goes on, though I hadn’t said nothing like that, being too polite.  “I’m too old,” he says; “I haven’t any teeth.  The last time one of those grizzly bears,” said he, glaring at the big St. Bernards, “took a hold of me, he nearly was my death,” says he.  I thought his eyes would pop out of his head, he seemed so wrought up about it.  “He rolled me around in the dirt, he did,” says Jimmy Jocks, “an’ I couldn’t get up.  It was low,” says Jimmy Jocks, making a face like he had a bad taste in his mouth.  “Low, that’s what I call it, bad form, you understand, young man, not done in our circles—­and—­and low.”  He growled, way down in his stomach, and puffed hisself out, panting and blowing like he had been on a run.

“I’m not a street-fighter,” he says, scowling at a St. Bernard marked “Champion.”  “And when my rheumatism is not troubling me,” he says, “I endeavor to be civil to all dogs, so long as they are gentlemen.”

“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, you certainly know that every dog has two names.  Now, what’s your registered name and number, for instance?” says he.

“I’ve only got one name,” I says.  “Just Kid.”

Woodstock Wizard puffs at that and wrinkles up his forehead and pops out his eyes.

“Who are your people?” says he.  “Where is your home?”