Then I heard the little Irish groom say, "I'll give you ten bob for
the dog."

And another voice says, "Ah, don't you do it; the dog's same as dead-
-mebby he is dead."

"Ten shillings!" says the Master, and his voice sobers a bit; "make
it two pounds, and he's yours."

But the pals rushed in again.

"Don't you be a fool, Jerry," they say. "You'll be sorry for this
when you're sober. The Kid's worth a fiver."

One of my eyes was not so swelled up as the other, and as I hung by
my tail, I opened it, and saw one of the pals take the groom by the
shoulder.

"You ought to give 'im five pounds for that dog, mate," he says;
"that's no ordinary dog. That dog's got good blood in him, that dog
has. Why, his father--that very dog's father--"

I thought he never would go on. He waited like he wanted to be sure
the groom was listening.

"That very dog's father," says the pal, "is Regent Royal, son of
Champion Regent Monarch, champion bull-terrier of England for four
years."

I was sore, and torn, and chewed most awful, but what the pal said