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“That’ll be all right,” says the little lady; “they’re my kennels too. And the puppies will like to play with him.”

You wouldn’t believe me if I was to tell you of the style of them quality-dogs. If I hadn’t seen it myself I wouldn’t have believed it neither. The Viceroy of Canada don’t live no better. There was forty of them, but each one had his own house and a yard–most exclusive– and a cot and a drinking-basin all to hisself. They had servants standing ’round waiting to feed ’em when they was hungry, and valets to wash ’em; and they had their hair combed and brushed like the grooms must when they go out on the box. Even the puppies had overcoats with their names on ’em in blue letters, and the name of each of those they called champions was painted up fine over his front door just like it was a public-house or a veterinary’s. They were the biggest St. Bernards I ever did see. I could have walked under them if they’d have let me. But they were very proud and haughty dogs, and looked only once at me, and then sniffed in the air. The little lady’s own dog was an old gentleman bull-dog. He’d come along with us, and when he notices how taken aback I was with all I see, ‘e turned quite kind and affable and showed me about.

“Jimmy Jocks,” Miss Dorothy called him, but, owing to his weight, he walked most dignified and slow, waddling like a duck as you might say, and looked much too proud and handsome for such a silly name.

“That’s the runway, and that’s the Trophy House,” says he to me, “and that over there is the hospital, where you have to go if you get distemper, and the vet. gives you beastly medicine.”

“And which of these is your ‘ouse, sir?” asks I, wishing to be respectful. But he looked that hurt and haughty. “I don’t live in the kennels,” says he, most contemptuous. “I am a house-dog. I sleep in Miss Dorothy’s room. And at lunch I’m let in with the family, if the visitors don’t mind. They most always do, but they’re too polite to say so. Besides,” says he, smiling most condescending, “visitors are always afraid of me. It’s because I’m so ugly,” says he. “I suppose,” says he, screwing up his wrinkles and speaking very slow and impressive, “I suppose I’m the ugliest bull-dog in America,” and as he seemed to be so pleased to think hisself so, I said, “Yes, sir, you certainly are the ugliest ever I see,” at which he nodded his head most approving.

“But I couldn’t hurt ’em, as you say,” he goes on, though I hadn’t said nothing like that, being too polite. “I’m too old,” he says; “I haven’t any teeth. The last time one of those grizzly bears,” said he, glaring at the big St. Bernards, “took a hold of me, he nearly was my death,” says he. I thought his eyes would pop out of his head, he seemed so wrought up about it. “He rolled me around in the dirt, he did,” says Jimmy Jocks, “an’ I couldn’t get up. It was low,” says Jimmy Jocks, making a face like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Low, that’s what I call it, bad form, you understand, young man, not done in our circles–and–and low.” He growled, way down in his stomach, and puffed hisself out, panting and blowing like he had been on a run.

“I’m not a street-fighter,” he says, scowling at a St. Bernard marked “Champion.” “And when my rheumatism is not troubling me,” he says, “I endeavor to be civil to all dogs, so long as they are gentlemen.”

“Yes, sir,” said I, for even to me he had been most affable.

At this we had come to a little house off by itself and Jimmy Jocks invites me in. “This is their trophy-room,” he says, “where they keep their prizes. Mine,” he says, rather grand-like, “are on the sideboard.” Not knowing what a sideboard might be, I said, “Indeed, sir, that must be very gratifying.” But he only wrinkled up his chops as much as to say, “It is my right.”