y-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,
certainly you know that every dog has two names. Now, for instance,
what's your registered name and number?" says he.

"I've got only 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 bull-terriers 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 woul