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“He tried to poison the Kid!” shouts the Master.

“Oh, one fight at a time,” says the referee. “Get into the ring, Jerry. We’re waiting.” So we went into the ring.

I never could just remember what did happen in that ring. He give me no time to spring. He fell on me like a horse. I couldn’t keep my feet against him, and though, as I saw, he could get his hold when he liked, he wanted to chew me over a bit first. I was wondering if they’d be able to pry him off me, when, in the third round, he took his hold; and I began to drown, just as I did when I fell into the river off the Red C slip. He closed deeper and deeper, on my throat, and everything went black and red and bursting; and then, when I were sure I were dead, the handlers pulled him off, and the Master give me a kick that brought me to. But I couldn’t move none, or even wink, both eyes being shut with lumps.

“He’s a cur!” yells the Master, “a sneaking, cowardly cur. He lost the fight for me,” says he, “because he’s a———cowardly cur.” And he kicks me again in the lower ribs, so that I go sliding across the sawdust. “There’s gratitude fer yer,” yells the Master. “I’ve fed that dog, and nussed that dog, and housed him like a prince; and now he puts his tail between his legs, and sells me out, he does. He’s a coward; I’ve done with him, I am. I’d sell him for a pipeful of tobacco.” He picked me up by the tail, and swung me for the men-folks to see. “Does any gentleman here want to buy a dog,” he says, “to make into sausage-meat?” he says. “That’s all he’s good for.”

Then I heard the little Irish groom say, “I’ll give you ten bob for the dog.”

And another voice says, “Ah, don’t you do it; the dog’s same as dead- -mebby he is dead.”

“Ten shillings!” says the Master, and his voice sobers a bit; “make it two pounds, and he’s yours.”

But the pals rushed in again.

“Don’t you be a fool, Jerry,” they say. “You’ll be sorry for this when you’re sober. The Kid’s worth a fiver.”

One of my eyes was not so swelled up as the other, and as I hung by my tail, I opened it, and saw one of the pals take the groom by the shoulder.

“You ought to give ‘im five pounds for that dog, mate,” he says; “that’s no ordinary dog. That dog’s got good blood in him, that dog has. Why, his father–that very dog’s father–“

I thought he never would go on. He waited like he wanted to be sure the groom was listening.

“That very dog’s father,” says the pal, “is Regent Royal, son of Champion Regent Monarch, champion bull-terrier of England for four years.”

I was sore, and torn, and chewed most awful, but what the pal said sounded so fine that I wanted to wag my tail, only couldn’t, owing to my hanging from it.

But the Master calls out, “Yes, his father was Regent Royal; who’s saying he wasn’t? but the pup’s a cowardly cur, that’s what his pup is, and why–I’ll tell you why–because his mother was a black-and- tan street-dog, that’s why!”

I don’t see how I get the strength, but some way I threw myself out of the Master’s grip and fell at his feet, and turned over and fastened all my teeth in his ankle, just across the bone.

When I woke, after the pals had kicked me off him, I was in the smoking-car of a railroad-train, lying in the lap of the little groom, and he was rubbing my open wounds with a greasy, yellow stuff, exquisite to the smell, and most agreeable to lick off.

PART II

“Well–what’s your name–Nolan? Well, Nolan, these references are satisfactory,” said the young gentleman my new Master called “Mr. Wyndham, sir.” “I’ll take you on as second man. You can begin to- day.”