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. Old Jimmy Jocks was about a fourth his
size; but he plants his feet and curves his back, and his hair goes
up around his neck like a collar. But he never had no show at no
time, for the grizzly bear, as Jimmy Jocks had called him, lights on
old Jimmy's back and tries to break it, and old Jimmy Jocks snaps his
gums and claws the grass, panting and groaning awful. But he can't do
nothing, and the grizzly bear just rolls him under him, biting and
tearing cruel. The odds was all that Woodstock Wizard III. was going
to be killed. I had fought enough to see that, but not knowing the
rules of the game among champions, I didn't like to interfere between
two gentlemen who might be settling a private affair, and, as it
were, take it as presuming of me. So I stood by, though I was shaking
terrible, and holding myself in like I was on a leash. But at that
Woodstock Wizard III., who was underneath, sees me through the dust,