About a month after my fight, the word was passed through the kennels that the New York Show was coming, and such goings on as followed I never did see. If each of them had been matched to fight for a thousand pounds and the gate, they couldn't have trained more conscientious. But, perhaps, that's just my envy. The kennel-men rubbed 'em and scrubbed 'em and trims their hair and curls and combs it, and some dogs they fatted, and some they starved. No one talked of nothing but the Show, and the chances “our kennels” had against the other kennels, and if this one of our champions would win over that one, and whether them as hoped to be champions had better show in the “open” or the “limit” class, and whether this dog would beat his own dad, or whether his little puppy sister couldn't beat the two of them. Even the grooms had their money up, and day or night you heard nothing but praises of “our” dogs, until I, being so far out of it, couldn't have felt meaner if I had been running the streets with a can to my tail. I knew shows were not for such as me, and so I lay all day stretched at the end of my chain, pretending I was asleep, and only too glad that they had something so important to think of, that they could leave me alone. But one day before the Show opened, Miss Dorothy came to the stables with “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” and seeing me chained up and so miserable, she takes me in her arms. “You poor little tyke,” says she. “It's cruel to tie him up so; he's eating his heart out, Nolan,” she says. “I don't know nothing about bull-terriers,” says she, “but I think Kid's got good points,” says she, “and you ought to show him. Jimmy Jocks has three legs on the Rensselaer Cup now, and I'm going to show him this time so that he can get the fourth, and if you wish, I'll enter your dog too. How would you like that, Kid?” says she. “How would you like to see the most beautiful dogs in the world? Maybe, you'd meet a pal or two,” says she. “It would cheer you up, wouldn't it, Kid?” says she. But I was so upset, I could only wag my tail most violent. “He says it would!” says she, though, being that excited, I hadn't said nothing. So, “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” laughs and takes out a piece of blue paper, and sits down at the head-groom's table. “What's the name of the father of your dog, Nolan?” says he. And Nolan says, “The man I got him off told me he was a son of Champion Regent Royal, sir. But it don't seem likely, does it?” says Nolan. “It does not!” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” short-like. “Aren't you sure, Nolan?” says Miss Dorothy. “No, Miss,” says the Master. “Sire unknown,” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” and writes it down. “Date of birth?” asks “Mr. Wyndham, sir.” “I--I--unknown, sir,” says Nolan. And “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” writes it down. “Breeder?” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir.” “Unknown,” says Nolan, getting very red around the jaws, and I drops my head and tail. And “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” writes that down. “Mother's name?” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir.”