“At the stable, sir,” I said.  “My Master is the second groom.”

At that Woodstock Wizard III. looks at me for quite a bit without winking, and stares all around the room over my head.

“Oh, well,” says he at last, “you’re a very civil young dog,” says he, “and I blame no one for what he can’t help,” which I thought most fair and liberal.  “And I have known many bullterriers that were champions,” says he, “though as a rule they mostly run with fire-engines, and to fighting.  For me, I wouldn’t care to run through the streets after a hose-cart, nor to fight,” says he; “but each to his taste.”

I could not help thinking that if Woodstock Wizard III. tried to follow a fire-engine he would die of apoplexy, and that, seeing he’d lost his teeth, it was lucky he had no taste for fighting, but, after his being so condescending, I didn’t say nothing.

“Anyway,” says he, “every smooth-coated dog is better than any hairy old camel like those St. Bernards, and if ever you’re hungry down at the stables, young man, come up to the house and I’ll give you a bone.  I can’t eat them myself, but I bury them around the garden from force of habit, and in case a friend should drop in.  Ah, I see my Mistress coming,” he says, “and I bid you good-day.  I regret,” he says, “that our different social position prevents our meeting frequent, for you’re a worthy young dog with a proper respect for your betters, and in this country there’s precious few of them have that.”  Then he waddles off, leaving me alone and very sad, for he was the first dog in many days that had spoken to me.  But since he showed, seeing that I was a stable-dog, he didn’t want my company, I waited for him to get well away.  It was not a cheerful place to wait, the Trophy House.  The pictures of the champions seemed to scowl at me, and ask what right had such as I even to admire them, and the blue and gold ribbons and the silver cups made me very miserable.  I had never won no blue ribbons or silver cups; only stakes for the old Master to spend in the publics, and I hadn’t won them for being a beautiful, high-quality dog, but just for fighting—­which, of course, as Woodstock Wizard III. says, is low.  So I started for the stables, with my head down and my tail between my legs, feeling sorry I had ever left the Master.  But I had more reason to be sorry before I got back to him.

The Trophy House was quite a bit from the kennels, and as I left it I see Miss Dorothy and Woodstock Wizard III. walking back toward them, and that a fine, big St. Bernard, his name was Champion Red Elfberg, had broke his chain, and was running their way.  When he reaches old Jimmy Jocks he lets out a roar like a grain-steamer in a fog, and he makes three leaps for him.  Old Jimmy Jocks was about a fourth his size; but he plants his feet and curves his back, and his hair goes up around his neck like a collar.  But he never had no show at no time, for the grizzly bear, as Jimmy Jocks had called him, lights on old