Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3) by Richard Harding Davis (dar e dil novel online reading TXT) 📕

Distemper,  And The Vet. Gives You Beastly Medicine."

"And Which Of These Is Your 'Ouse,  Sir?" Asks I,  Wishing To Be

Respectful. But He Looked That Hurt And Haughty. "I Don't Live In The

Kennels," Says He,  Most Contemptuous. "I Am A House-Dog. I Sleep In

Miss Dorothy's Room. And At Lunch I'm Let In With The Family,  If The

Visitors Don't Mind. They Most Always Do,  But They're Too Polite To

Say So. Besides," Says He,  Smiling Most Condescending,  "Visitors Are

Always Afraid Of Me. It's Because I'm So Ugly," Says He. "I Suppose,"

Says He,  Screwing Up His Wrinkles And Speaking Very Slow And

Impressive,  "I Suppose I'm The Ugliest Bull-Dog In America," And As

He Seemed To Be So Pleased To Think Hisself So,  I Said,  "Yes,  Sir,

You Certainly Are The Ugliest Ever I See," At Which He Nodded His

Head Most Approving.

"But I Couldn't Hurt 'Em,  As You Say," He Goes On,  Though I Hadn't

Said Nothing Like That,  Being Too Polite. "I'm Too Old," He Says; "I

Haven't Any Teeth. The Last Time One Of Those Grizzly Bears," Said

He,  Glaring At The Big St. Bernards,  "Took A Hold Of Me,  He Nearly

Was My Death," Says He. I Thought His Eyes Would Pop Out Of His Head,

He Seemed So Wrought Up About It. "He Rolled Me Around In The Dirt,

He Did," Says Jimmy Jocks,  "An' I Couldn't Get Up. It Was Low," Says

Jimmy Jocks,  Making A Face Like He Had A Bad Taste In His Mouth.

"Low,  That's What I Call It,  Bad Form,  You Understand,  Young Man,  Not

Done In Our Circles--And--And Low." He Growled,  Way Down In His

Stomach,  And Puffed Hisself Out,  Panting And Blowing Like He Had Been

On A Run.

"I'm Not A Street-Fighter," He Says,  Scowling At A St. Bernard Marked

"Champion." "And When My Rheumatism Is Not Troubling Me," He Says,  "I

Endeavor To Be Civil To All Dogs,  So Long As They Are Gentlemen."

"Yes,  Sir," Said I,  For Even To Me He Had Been Most Affable.

At This We Had Come To A Little House Off By Itself And Jimmy Jocks

Invites Me In. "This Is Their Trophy-Room," He Says,  "Where They Keep

Their Prizes. Mine," He Says,  Rather Grand-Like,  "Are On The

Sideboard." Not Knowing What A Sideboard Might Be,  I Said,  "Indeed,

Sir,  That Must Be Very Gratifying." But He Only Wrinkled Up His Chops

As Much As To Say,  "It Is My Right."

The Trophy-Room Was As Wonderful As Any Public-House I Ever See. On

The Walls Was Pictures Of Nothing But Beautiful St. Bernard Dogs,  And

Rows And Rows Of Blue And Red And Yellow Ribbons; And When I Asked

Jimmy Jocks Why They Was So Many More Of Blue Than Of The Others,  He

Laughs And Says,  "Because These Kennels Always Win." And There Was

Many Shining Cups On The Shelves Which Jimmy Jocks Told Me Were

Prizes Won By The Champions.

"Now,  Sir,  Might I Ask You,  Sir," Says I,  "Wot Is A Champion?"

At That He Panted And Breathed So Hard I Thought He Would Bust

Hisself. "My Dear Young Friend!" Says He. "Wherever Have You Been

Educated? A Champion Is A--A Champion," He Says. "He Must Win Nine

Blue Ribbons In The 'Open' Class. You Follow Me--That Is--Against All

Comers. Then He Has The Title Before His Name,  And They Put His

Photograph In The Sporting Papers. You Know,  Of Course,  That _I_ Am A

Champion," Says He. "I Am Champion Woodstock Wizard Iii.,  And The Two

Other Woodstock Wizards,  My Father And Uncle,  Were Both Champions."

"But I Thought Your Name Was Jimmy Jocks," I Said.

He Laughs Right Out At That.

"That's My Kennel Name,  Not My Registered Name," He Says. "Why,  You

Certainly Know That Every Dog Has Two Names. Now,  What's Your

Registered Name And Number,  For Instance?" Says He.

"I've Only Got One Name," I Says. "Just Kid."

Woodstock Wizard Puffs At That And Wrinkles Up His Forehead And Pops

Out His Eyes.

"Who Are Your People?" Says He. "Where Is Your Home?"

"At The Stable,  Sir," I Said. "My Master Is The Second Groom."

At That Woodstock Wizard Iii. Looks At Me For Quite A Bit Without

Winking,  And Stares All Around The Room Over My Head.

"Oh,  Well," Says He At Last,  "You're A Very Civil Young Dog," Says

He,  "And I Blame No One For What He Can't Help," Which I Thought Most

Fair And Liberal. "And I Have Known Many Bullterriers That Were

Champions," Says He,  "Though As A Rule They Mostly Run With Fire-

Engines,  And To Fighting. For Me,  I Wouldn't Care To Run Through The

Streets After A Hose-Cart,  Nor To Fight," Says He; "But Each To His

Taste."

I Could Not Help Thinking That If Woodstock Wizard Iii. Tried To

Follow A Fire-Engine He Would Die Of Apoplexy,  And That,  Seeing He'd

Lost His Teeth,  It Was Lucky He Had No Taste For Fighting,  But,  After

His Being So Condescending,  I Didn't Say Nothing.

"Anyway," Says He,  "Every Smooth-Coated Dog Is Better Than Any Hairy

Old Camel Like Those St. Bernards,  And If Ever You're Hungry Down At

The Stables,  Young Man,  Come Up To The House And I'll Give You A

Bone. I Can't Eat Them Myself,  But I Bury Them Around The Garden From

Force Of Habit,  And In Case A Friend Should Drop In. Ah,  I See My

Mistress Coming," He Says,  "And I Bid You Good-Day. I Regret," He

Says,  "That Our Different Social Position Prevents Our Meeting

Frequent,  For You're A Worthy Young Dog With A Proper Respect For

Your Betters,  And In This Country There's Precious Few Of Them Have

That." Then He Waddles Off,  Leaving Me Alone And Very Sad,  For He Was

The First Dog In Many Days That Had Spoken To Me. But Since He

Showed,  Seeing That I Was A Stable-Dog,  He Didn't Want My Company,  I

Waited For Him To Get Well Away. It Was Not A Cheerful Place To Wait,

The Trophy House. The Pictures Of The Champions Seemed To Scowl At

Me,  And Ask What Right Had Such As I Even To Admire Them,  And The

Blue And Gold Ribbons And The Silver Cups Made Me Very Miserable. I

Had Never Won No Blue Ribbons Or Silver Cups; Only Stakes For The Old

Master To Spend In The Publics,  And I Hadn't Won Them For Being A

Beautiful,  High-Quality Dog,  But Just For Fighting--Which,  Of Course,

As Woodstock Wizard Iii. Says,  Is Low. So I Started For The Stables,

With My Head Down And My Tail Between My Legs,  Feeling Sorry I Had

Ever Left The Master. But I Had More Reason To Be Sorry Before I Got

Back To Him.

The Trophy House Was Quite A Bit From The Kennels,  And As I Left It I

See Miss Dorothy And Woodstock Wizard Iii. Walking Back Toward Them,

And That A Fine,  Big St. Bernard,  His Name Was Champion Red Elfberg,

Had Broke His Chain,  And Was Running Their Way. When He Reaches Old

Jimmy Jocks He Lets Out A Roar Like A Grain-Steamer In A Fog,  And He

Makes Three Leaps For Him. Old Jimmy Jocks Was About A Fourth His

Size; But He Plants His Feet And Curves His Back,  And His Hair Goes

Up Around His Neck Like A Collar. But He Never Had No Show At No

Time,  For The Grizzly Bear,  As Jimmy Jocks Had Called Him,  Lights On

Old Jimmy's Back And Tries To Break It,  And Old Jimmy Jocks Snaps His

Gums And Claws The Grass,  Panting And Groaning Awful. But He Can't Do

Nothing,  And The Grizzly Bear Just Rolls Him Under Him,  Biting And

Tearing Cruel. The Odds Was All That Woodstock Wizard Iii. Was Going

To Be Killed. I Had Fought Enough To See That,  But Not Knowing The

Rules Of The Game Among Champions,  I Didn't Like To Interfere Between

Two Gentlemen Who Might Be Settling A Private Affair,  And,  As It

Were,  Take It As Presuming Of Me. So I Stood By,  Though I Was Shaking

Terrible,  And Holding Myself In Like I Was On A Leash. But At That

Woodstock Wizard Iii.,  Who Was Underneath,  Sees Me Through The Dust,

And Calls Very Faint,  "Help,  You!" He Says. "Take Him In The Hind-

Leg," He Says. "He's Murdering Me," He Says. And Then The Little Miss

Dorothy,  Who Was Crying,  And Calling To The Kennel-Men,  Catches At

The Red Elfberg's Hind-Legs To Pull Him Off,  And The Brute,  Keeping

His Front Pats Well In Jimmy's Stomach,  Turns His Big Head And Snaps

At Her. So That Was All I Asked For,  Thank You. I Went Up Under Him.

It Was Really Nothing. He Stood So High That I Had Only To Take Off

About Three Feet From Him And Come In From The Side,  And My Long,

"Punishing Jaw" As Mother Was Always Talking About,  Locked On His

Woolly Throat,  And My Back Teeth Met. I Couldn't Shake Him,  But I

Shook Myself,  And Every Time I Shook Myself There Was Thirty Pounds

Of Weight Tore At His Windpipes. I Couldn't See Nothing For His Long

Hair,  But I Heard Jimmy Jocks Puffing And Blowing On One Side,  And

Munching The Brute's Leg With His Old Gums. Jimmy Was An Old Sport

That Day,  Was Jimmy,  Or,  Woodstock Wizard Iii.,  As I Should Say. When

The Red Elfberg Was Out And Down I Had To Run,  Or Those Kennel-Men

Would Have Had My Life. They Chased Me Right Into The Stables; And

From Under The Hay I Watched The Head-Groom Take Down A Carriage-Whip

And Order Them To The Right About. Luckily Master And The Young

Grooms Were Out,  Or That Day There'd Have Been Fighting For

Everybody.

Well,  It Nearly Did For Me And The Master. "Mr. Wyndham,  Sir," Comes

Raging To The Stables And Said I'd Half-Killed His Best Prize-Winner,

And Had Oughter Be Shot,  And He Gives The Master His Notice. But Miss

Dorothy She Follows Him,  And Says It Was His Red Elfberg What Began

The Fight,  And That I'd Saved Jimmy's Life,  And That Old Jimmy Jocks

Was Worth More To Her Than All The St. Bernards In The Swiss

Mountains--Where-Ever They Be. And That I Was Her Champion,  Anyway.

Then She Cried Over Me