He's won for three years now. There he is. Isn't he wonderful?" says
he, and he points to a dog that's standing proud and haughty on the
platform in the middle of the ring.
I never see so beautiful a dog, so fine and clean and noble, so white
like he had rolled hisself in flour, holding his nose up and his eyes
shut, same as though no one was worth looking at. Aside of him, we
other dogs, even though we had a blue ribbon apiece, seemed like
lumps of mud. He was a royal gentleman, a king, he was. His Master
didn't have to hold his head with no leash. He held it hisself,
standing as still as an iron dog on a lawn, like he knew all the
people was looking at him. And so they was, and no one around the
ring pointed at no other dog but him.
"Oh, what a picture," cried Miss Dorothy; "he's like a marble figure
by a great artist--one who loved dogs. Who is he?" says she, looking
in her book. "I don't keep up with terriers."
"Oh, you know him," says the gentleman. "He is the Champion of
champions, Regent Royal."
The Master's face went red.
"And this is Regent Royal's son," cries he, and he pulls me quick
into the ring, and plants me on the platform next my father.
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