Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3), Richard Harding Davis [best novel books to read TXT] 📗
- Author: Richard Harding Davis
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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
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 57Jimmy 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?"
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 58
"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
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 59Tearing 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
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