I stood as
stiff as stone. I didn't even breathe. But out of the corner of my
eye I could see my father licking his pink chops, and yawning just a
little, like he was bored.
The Judge, he had stopped looking fierce, and was looking solemn.
Something inside him seemed a troubling him awful. The more he stares
at us now, the more solemn he gets, and when he touches us he does it
gentle, like he was patting us. For a long time he kneels in the
sawdust, looking at my father and at me, and no one around the ring
says nothing to nobody.
Then the Judge takes a breath and touches me sudden. "It's his," he
says, but he lays his hand just as quick on my father. "I'm sorry,"
says he.
The gentleman holding my father cries:
"Do you mean to tell me--"
And the Judge, he answers, "I mean the other is the better dog." He
takes my father's head between his hands and looks down at him, most
sorrowful. "The King is dead," says he, "long live the King. Good-by,
Regent," he says.
The crowd around the railings clapped their hands, and some laughed
scornful, and everyone talks fast, and I start for the gate so dizzy
that I can't see my way.
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