“Didn’t I tell you,” says Jimmy Jocks, “that I saw your grandfather make his debut at the Crystal—­”

“Yes, sir, you did, sir,” says I, for I have no love for the men of my family.

A gentleman with a showing leash around his neck comes up just then and looks at me very critical.  “Nice dog you’ve got, Miss Wyndham,” says he; “would you care to sell him?”

“He’s not my dog,” says Miss Dorothy, holding me tight.  “I wish he were.”

“He’s not for sale, sir,” says the Master, and I was that glad.

“Oh, he’s yours, is he?” says the gentleman, looking hard at Nolan.  “Well, I’ll give you a hundred dollars for him,” says he, careless-like.

“Thank you, sir, he’s not for sale,” says Nolan, but his eyes get very big.  The gentleman, he walked away, but I watches him, and he talks to a man in a golf-cap, and by and by the man comes along our street, looking at all the dogs, and stops in front of me.

“This your dog?” says he to Nolan.  “Pity he’s so leggy,” says he.  “If he had a good tail, and a longer stop, and his ears were set higher, he’d be a good dog.  As he is, I’ll give you fifty dollars for him.”

But before the Master could speak, Miss Dorothy laughs, and says, “You’re Mr. Polk’s kennel-man, I believe.  Well, you tell Mr. Polk from me that the dog’s not for sale now any more than he was five minutes ago, and that when he is, he’ll have to bid against me for him.”  The man looks foolish at that, but he turns to Nolan quick-like.  “I’ll give you three hundred for him,” he says.

“Oh, indeed!” whispers Miss Dorothy, like she was talking to herself.  “That’s it, is it,” and she turns and looks at me just as though she had never seen me before.  Nolan, he was a gaping, too, with his mouth open.  But he holds me tight.

“He’s not for sale,” he growls, like he was frightened, and the man looks black and walks away.

“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 Winner’s Class,” says the gentleman “Hurry, please.  The Judge is waiting for him.”

Nolan tries to get me off the chain onto a showing leash, but he shakes so, he only chokes me.  “What is it, Miss?” he says.  “What is it?”

“The Winner’s 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.”