said nothing like that, being too polite. "I'm too old," he says; "I
haven't any teeth. The last time one of those grizzly bears," said
he, glaring at the big St. Bernards, "took a hold of me, he nearly
was my death," says he. I thought his eyes would pop out of his head,
he seemed so wrought up about it. "He rolled me around in the dirt,
he did," says Jimmy Jocks, "an' I couldn't get up. It was low," says
Jimmy Jocks, making a face like he had a bad taste in his mouth.
"Low, that's what I call it, bad form, you understand, young man, not
done in our circles--and--and low." He growled, way down in his
stomach, and puffed hisself out, panting and blowing like he had been
on a run.

"I'm not a street-fighter," he says, scowling at a St. Bernard marked
"Champion." "And when my rheumatism is not troubling me," he says, "I
endeavor to be civil to all dogs, so long as they are gentlemen."

"Yes, sir," said I, for even to me he had been most affable.

At this we had come to a little house off by itself and Jimmy Jocks
invites me in. "This is their trophy-room," he says, "where they keep
their prizes. Mine," he says, rather grand-like, "are on the
sideboard." Not knowing what a sideboard might be, I said, "Indeed,
sir, that must be very gratifying." But he only wrinkled up his chops
as much as to say, "It is my right."

The trophy-room was as wonderful as any public-house I ever see. On
the walls was pictures of nothing but beautiful St. Bernard dogs, and
rows and rows of blue and red and yellow ribbons; and when I asked
Jimmy Jocks why they was so many more of blue than of the others, he
laughs and says, "Because these kennels always win." And there was