But since he
showed, seeing that I was a stable-dog, he didn't want my company, I
waited for him to get well away. It was not a cheerful place to wait,
the Trophy House. The pictures of the champions seemed to scowl at
me, and ask what right had such as I even to admire them, and the
blue and gold ribbons and the silver cups made me very miserable. I
had never won no blue ribbons or silver cups; only stakes for the old
Master to spend in the publics, and I hadn't won them for being a
beautiful, high-quality dog, but just for fighting--which, of course,
as Woodstock Wizard III. says, is low. So I started for the stables,
with my head down and my tail between my legs, feeling sorry I had
ever left the Master. But I had more reason to be sorry before I got
back to him.
The Trophy House was quite a bit from the kennels, and as I left it I
see Miss Dorothy and Woodstock Wizard III. walking back toward them,
and that a fine, big St. Bernard, his name was Champion Red Elfberg,
had broke his chain, and was running their way. When he reaches old
Jimmy Jocks he lets out a roar like a grain-steamer in a fog, and he
makes three leaps for him.
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