"And I have known many bullterriers that were
champions," says he, "though as a rule they mostly run with fire-
engines, and to fighting. For me, I wouldn't care to run through the
streets after a hose-cart, nor to fight," says he; "but each to his
taste."
I could not help thinking that if Woodstock Wizard III. tried to
follow a fire-engine he would die of apoplexy, and that, seeing he'd
lost his teeth, it was lucky he had no taste for fighting, but, after
his being so condescending, I didn't say nothing.
"Anyway," says he, "every smooth-coated dog is better than any hairy
old camel like those St. Bernards, and if ever you're hungry down at
the stables, young man, come up to the house and I'll give you a
bone. I can't eat them myself, but I bury them around the garden from
force of habit, and in case a friend should drop in. Ah, I see my
Mistress coming," he says, "and I bid you good-day. I regret," he
says, "that our different social position prevents our meeting
frequent, for you're a worthy young dog with a proper respect for
your betters, and in this country there's precious few of them have
that." Then he waddles off, leaving me alone and very sad, for he was
the first dog in many days that had spoken to me.
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