"
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.
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