For while I, when I'm washed for a
fight, am as white as clean snow, she--and this is our trouble, she--
my mother, is a black-and-tan.
When mother hid herself from me, I was twelve months old and able to
take care of myself, and, as after mother left me, the wharves were
never the same, I moved uptown and met the Master. Before he came,
lots of other men-folks had tried to make up to me, and to whistle me
home. But they either tried patting me or coaxing me with a piece of
meat; so I didn't take to 'em. But one day the Master pulled me out
of a street-fight by the hind-legs, and kicked me good.
"You want to fight, do you?" says he. "I'll give you all the FIGHTING
you want!" he says, and he kicks me again. So I knew he was my
Master, and I followed him home. Since that day I've pulled off many
fights for him, and they've brought dogs from all over the province
to have a go at me, but up to that night none, under thirty pounds,
had ever downed me.
But that night, so soon as they carried me into the ring, I saw the
dog was over-weight, and that I was no match for him. It was asking
too much of a puppy. The Master should have known I couldn't do it.
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