"Every dog in Montreal knows," he says, "except you, and every Master
knows. So I think it's time you knew."

Then he tells me that my father, who had treated mother so bad, was a
great and noble gentleman from London. "Your father had twenty-two
registered ancestors, had your father," old Guardian says, "and in
him was the best bull-terrier blood of England, the most ancientest,
the most royal; the winning 'blue-ribbon' blood, that breeds
champions. He had sleepy pink eyes, and thin pink lips, and he was as
white all over as his own white teeth, and under his white skin you
could see his muscles, hard and smooth, like the links of a steel
chain. When your father stood still, and tipped his nose in the air,
it was just as though he was saying, 'Oh, yes, you common dogs and
men, you may well stare. It must be a rare treat for you Colonials to
see a real English royalty.' He certainly was pleased with hisself,
was your father. He looked just as proud and haughty as one of them
stone dogs in Victoria Park--them as is cut out of white marble. And
you're like him," says the old mastiff--"by that, of course, meaning
you're white, same as him. That's the only likeness. But, you see,
the trouble is, Kid--well, you see, Kid, the trouble is--your mother-
-"

"That will do," I said, for I understood then without his telling me,
and I got up and walked away, holding my head and tail high in the
air.

But I was, oh, so miserable, and I wanted to see mother that very
minute, and tell her that I didn't care.