him ugly-tempered for a fight may make him nasty, but it's weakening
to his insides, and it causes the legs to wabble.

The ring was in a hall, back of a public-house. There was a red-hot
whitewashed stove in one corner, and the ring in the other. I lay in
the Master's lap, wrapped in my blanket, and, spite of the stove,
shivering awful; but I always shiver before a fight; I can't help
gettin' excited. While the men-folks were a-flashing their money and
taking their last drink at the bar, a little Irish groom in gaiters
came up to me and give me the back of his hand to smell, and
scratched me behind the ears.

"You poor little pup," says he. "You haven't no show," he says. "That
brute in the tap-room, he'll eat your heart out."

"That's what you think," says the Master, snarling. "I'll lay you a
quid the Kid chews him up."

The groom, he shook his head, but kept looking at me so sorry-like,
that I begun to get a bit sad myself. He seemed like he couldn't bear
to leave off a-patting of me, and he says, speaking low just like he
would to a man-folk, "Well, good-luck to you, little pup," which I
thought so civil of him, that I reached up and licked his hand. I
don't do that to many men. And the Master, he knew I didn't, and took
on dreadful.

"What 'ave you got on the back of your hand?" says he, jumping up.

"Soap!" says the groom, quick as a rat. "That's more than you've got
on yours. Do you want to smell of it?" and he sticks his fist under