"Thank you, sir," says the Master, grinning like a cat when she's
safe behind the area-railing.

"He's not a bad bull-terrier," says "Mr. Wyndham, sir," feeling my
head. "Not that I know much about the smooth-coated breeds. My dogs
are St. Bernards." He stopped patting me and held up my nose. "What's
the matter with his ears?" he says. "They're chewed to pieces. Is
this a fighting dog?" he asks, quick and rough-like.

I could have laughed. If he hadn't been holding my nose, I certainly
would have had a good grin at him. Me, the best under thirty pounds
in the Province of Quebec, and him asking if I was a fighting dog! I
ran to the Master and hung down my head modest-like, waiting for him
to tell my list of battles, but the Master he coughs in his cap most
painful. "Fightin' dog, sir," he cries. "Lor' bless you, sir, the Kid
don't know the word. 'Es just a puppy, sir, same as you see; a pet
dog, so to speak. 'Es a regular old lady's lap-dog, the Kid is."

"Well, you keep him away from my St. Bernards," says "Mr. Wyndham,
sir," "or they might make a mouthful of him."

"Yes, sir, that they might," says the Master. But when we gets
outside he slaps his knee and laughs inside hisself, and winks at me
most sociable.

The Master's new home was in the country, in a province they called
Long Island. There was a high stone wall about his home with big iron
gates to it, same as Godfrey's brewery; and there was a house with
five red roofs, and the stables, where I lived, was cleaner than the