“You poor little tyke,” says she.  “It’s cruel to tie him up so; he’s eating his heart out, Nolan,” she says.  “I don’t know nothing about bull-terriers,” says she, “but I think Kid’s got good points,” says she, “and you ought to show him.  Jimmy Jocks has three legs on the Rensselaer Cup now, and I’m going to show him this time so that he can get the fourth, and if you wish, I’ll enter your dog too.  How would you like that, Kid?” says she.  “How would you like to see the most beautiful dogs in the world?  Maybe, you’d meet a pal or two,” says she.  “It would cheer you up, wouldn’t it, Kid?” says she.  But I was so upset, I could only wag my tail most violent.  “He says it would!” says she, though, being that excited, I hadn’t said nothing.

So, “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” laughs and takes out a piece of blue paper, and sits down at the head-groom’s table.

“What’s the name of the father of your dog, Nolan?” says he.  And Nolan says, “The man I got him off told me he was a son of Champion Regent Royal, sir.  But it don’t seem likely, does it?” says Nolan.

“It does not!” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” short-like.

“Aren’t you sure, Nolan?” says Miss Dorothy.

“No, Miss,” says the Master.

“Sire unknown,” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” and writes it down.

“Date of birth?” asks “Mr. Wyndham, sir.”

“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 sand-papered 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.

“Upon my word!” says Jimmy Jocks when he first sees me.  “What a swell you are!  You’re the image of your grand-dad when he made his debut at the Crystal Palace.  He took four firsts and three specials.”  But I knew he was only trying to throw heart into me.  They might scrub, and they might rub, and they might pipe-clay, but they couldn’t pipe-clay the insides of me, and they was black-and-tan.