But it don't seem likely, does it?" says Nolan.
"It does not!" says "Mr. Wyndham, sir," short-like.
"Aren't you sure, Nolan?" says Miss Dorothy.
"No, Miss," says the Master.
"Sire unknown," says "Mr. Wyndham, sir," and writes it down.
"Date of birth?" asks "Mr. Wyndham, sir."
"I--I--unknown, sir," says Nolan. And "Mr. Wyndham, sir," writes it
down.
"Breeder?" says "Mr. Wyndham, sir."
"Unknown," says Nolan, getting very red around the jaws, and I drops
my head and tail. And "Mr. Wyndham, sir," writes that down.
"Mother's name?" says "Mr. Wyndham, sir."
"She was a--unknown," says the Master. And I licks his hand.
"Dam unknown," says "Mr. Wyndham, sir," and writes it down. Then he
takes the paper and reads out loud: "Sire unknown, dam unknown,
breeder unknown, date of birth unknown. You'd better call him the
'Great Unknown,'" says he. "Who's paying his entrance-fee?"
"I am," says Miss Dorothy.
Two weeks after we all got on a train for New York; Jimmy Jocks and
me following Nolan in the smoking-car, and twenty-two of the St.
Bernards, in boxes and crates, and on chains and leashes. Such a
barking and howling I never did hear, and when they sees me going,
too, they laughs fit to kill.
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