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The Bar Sinister
by
“These misalliances will occur,” said Jimmy Jocks, in his old- fashioned way, “but no well-bred dog,” says he, looking most scornful at the St. Bernards, who were howling behind the palings, “would refer to your misfortune before you, certainly not cast it in your face. I, myself, remember your father’s father, when he made his debut at the Crystal Palace. He took four blue ribbons and three specials.”
But no sooner than Jimmy would leave me, the St. Bernards would take to howling again, insulting mother and insulting me. And when I tore at my chain, they, seeing they were safe, would howl the more. It was never the same after that; the laughs and the jeers cut into my heart, and the chain bore heavy on my spirit. I was so sad that sometimes I wished I was back in the gutter again, where no one was better than me, and some nights I wished I was dead. If it hadn’t been for the Master being so kind, and that it would have looked like I was blaming mother, I would have twisted my leash and hanged myself.
About a month after my fight, the word was passed through the kennels that the New York Show was coming, and such goings on as followed I never did see. If each of them had been matched to fight for a thousand pounds and the gate, they couldn’t have trained more conscientious. But, perhaps, that’s just my envy. The kennel-men rubbed ’em and scrubbed ’em and trims their hair and curls and combs it, and some dogs they fatted, and some they starved. No one talked of nothing but the Show, and the chances “our kennels” had against the other kennels, and if this one of our champions would win over that one, and whether them as hoped to be champions had better show in the “open” or the “limit” class, and whether this dog would beat his own dad, or whether his little puppy sister couldn’t beat the two of them. Even the grooms had their money up, and day or night you heard nothing but praises of “our” dogs, until I, being so far out of it, couldn’t have felt meaner if I had been running the streets with a can to my tail. I knew shows were not for such as me, and so I lay all day stretched at the end of my chain, pretending I was asleep, and only too glad that they had something so important to think of, that they could leave me alone.
But one day before the Show opened, Miss Dorothy came to the stables with “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” and seeing me chained up and so miserable, she takes me in her arms.
“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.