But the proudest and haughtiest of all was the bloodhound that owned that Uncle Tom show--leastways, he acted as if he owned it. It was a show that showed in a tent, like a regular circus, and it stayed in our town three days. It had a street parade, too; and this bloodhound was led along at the head of the street parade with a big heavy muzzle on, and he was loaded down with chains and shackles so he could hardly walk. Besides the fellow that led him, there were two more men that followed along behind him and held on to chains that were fastened to his collar. In front of him marched the Uncle Tom of that show; and every now and then the bloodhound would struggle to get at Uncle Tom and be pulled back. He was a very dangerous-looking dog, and you thought to yourself what a lot of damage he would probably do if he was ever to bite those chains to pieces and eat up those three men that held him and chew Uncle Tom and then run loose into the world. Every step he took he would toss his head and jangle those chains and growl. After the parade was over, a lot of us dogs and boys went down to the lot where the show was to be held. We were hanging around the tent where the actors were eating, and that bloodhound dog was there without chains like any other dog, and us dogs got to talking with him. “You country-town dogs,” he says to Mutt Mulligan, who is a friend of mine and some considerable dog himself, “don't want to come fussin' around too close to my cook tent or my show! Us troupers ain't got any too much use for you hick dogs, anyhow.” “Oh, it's _your_ show, is it?” says Mutt. “Whose show did you think it was?” says that bloodhound dog, very haughty. “1 thought from all those chains and things, maybe the show owned you, instead of you owning the show,” says Mutt. “You saw who led that street parade, didn't you?” says the bloodhound dog. “Well, that ought to tell you who the chief actor of this show is. This here show is built up around me. If anything was to happen to me, there couldn't be any show.” Mutt, he gave me a signal with his tail to edge in a little closer, and I sidled up to where I could grab a front leg unexpected to him, if he made a pass at Mutt. And then Mutt says, sneering so his teeth stuck out and his nose wrinkled: “Something's goin' to happen to you, if you ain't more polite and peaceable in your talk.” “What's goin' to happen to me?” says that bloodhound dog. “Don't you let them bristles rise around your neck,” says Mutt, “or you'll find out what's goin' to happen to you.” “Whose bristles are they?” says that bloodhound dog. “It don't make any difference whose bristles they are,” says Mutt. “No dog can stick his bristles up into my face like that and get away with it. When I see bristles stand up, I take it personal.” But just then Old Uncle Zeb White, who is coloured, come amoseyin' along, and that Tom-show dog barked out: