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.
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