"Do you want we should lose our money?" says the pals.
I had had nothing to eat for a day and a night, and just before we
set out the Master gives me a wash under the hydrant. Whenever I am
locked up until all the slop-pans in our alley are empty, and made to
take a bath, and the Master's pals speak civil, and feel my ribs, I
know something is going to happen. And that night, when every time
they see a policeman under a lamp-post, they dodged across the
street, and when at the last one of them picked me up and hid me
under his jacket, I began to tremble; for I knew what it meant. It
meant that I was to fight again for the Master.
I don't fight because I like it. I fight because if I didn't the
other dog would find my throat, and the Master would lose his stakes,
and I would be very sorry for him and ashamed. Dogs can pass me and I
can pass dogs, and I'd never pick a fight with none of them. When I
see two dogs standing on their hind-legs in the streets, clawing each
other's ears, and snapping for each other's windpipes, or howling and
swearing and rolling in the mud, I feel sorry they should act so, and
pretend not to notice.
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