Mother is what I am, a street-dog; there's no royal blood in mother's
veins, nor is she like that father of mine, nor--and that's the
worst--she's not even like me. For while I, when I'm washed for a
fight, am as white as clean snow, she--and this is our trouble, she--
my mother, is a black-and-tan.

When mother hid herself from me, I was twelve months old and able to
take care of myself, and, as after mother left me, the wharves were
never the same, I moved uptown and met the Master. Before he came,
lots of other men-folks had tried to make up to me, and to whistle me
home. But they either tried patting me or coaxing me with a piece of
meat; so I didn't take to 'em. But one day the Master pulled me out
of a street-fight by the hind-legs, and kicked me good.

"You want to fight, do you?" says he. "I'll give you all the FIGHTING
you want!" he says, and he kicks me again. So I knew he was my
Master, and I followed him home. Since that day I've pulled off many
fights for him, and they've brought dogs from all over the province
to have a go at me, but up to that night none, under thirty pounds,
had ever downed me.

But that night, so soon as they carried me into the ring, I saw the
dog was over-weight, and that I was no match for him. It was asking
too much of a puppy. The Master should have known I couldn't do it.
Not that I mean to blame the Master, for when sober, which he
sometimes was, though not, as you might say, his habit, he was most
kind to me, and let me out to find food, if I could get it, and only
kicked me when I didn't pick him up at night and lead him home.

But kicks will stiffen the muscles, and starving a dog so as to get