Breed of Battle
ME AND MY WHITE BULLDOG Mike was peaceably taking our beer in a
joint on the waterfront when Porkey Straus come piling in, plumb
puffing with excitement.
"Hey, Steve!" he yelped. "What you think? Joe Ritchie's in port
with Terror."
"Well?" I said.
"Well, gee whiz," he said, "you mean to set there and let on like
you don't know nothin' about Terror, Ritchie's fightin' brindle bull?
Why, he's the pit champeen of the Asiatics. He's killed more fightin'
dogs than--"
"Yeah, yeah," I said impatiently. "I know all about him. I been
listenin' to what a bear-cat he is for the last year, in every Asiatic
port I've touched."
"Well," said Porkey, "I'm afraid we ain't goin' to git to see him
perform."
"Why not?" asked Johnnie Blinn, a shifty-eyed bar-keep.
"Well," said Porkey, "they ain't a dog in Singapore to match
ag'in' him. Fritz Steinmann, which owns the pit and runs the dog
fights, has scoured the port and they just ain't no canine which their
owners'll risk ag'in' Terror. Just my luck. The chance of a lifetime
to see the fightin'est dog of 'em all perform. And they's no first-
class mutt to toss in with him. Say, Steve, why don't you let Mike
fight him?"
"Not a chance," I growled. "Mike gets plenty of scrappin' on the
streets. Besides, I'll tell you straight, I think dog fightin' for
money is a dirty low-down game. Take a couple of fine, upstandin'
dogs, full of ginger and fightin' heart, and throw 'em in a concrete
pit to tear each other's throats out, just so a bunch of four-flushin'
tin-horns like you, which couldn't take a punch or give one either,
can make a few lousy dollars bettin' on 'em."
"But they likes to fight," argued Porkey. "It's their nature."
"It's the nature of any red-blooded critter to fight. Man or dog!"
I said. "Let 'em fight on the streets, for bones or for fun, or just
to see which is the best dog. But pit-fightin' to the death is just
too dirty for me to fool with, and I ain't goin' to get Mike into no
such mess."
"Aw, let him alone, Porkey," sneered Johnnie Blinn nastily. "He's
too chicken-hearted to mix in them rough games. Ain't you, Sailor?"
"Belay that," I roared. "You keep a civil tongue in your head, you
wharfside rat. I never did like you nohow, and one more crack like
that gets you this." I brandished my huge fist at him and he turned
pale and started scrubbing the bar like he was trying for a record.
"I wantcha to know that Mike can lick this Terror mutt," I said,
glaring at Porkey. "I'm fed up hearin' fellers braggin' on that
brindle murderer. Mike can lick him. He can lick any dog in this lousy
port, just like I can lick any man here. If Terror meets Mike on the
street and gets fresh, he'll get his belly-full. But Mike ain't goin'
to get mixed up in no dirty racket like Fritz Steinmann runs and you
can lay to that." I made the last statement in a voice like a
irritated bull, and smashed my fist down on the table so hard I
splintered the wood, and made the decanters bounce on the bar.
1108200829
joint on the waterfront when Porkey Straus come piling in, plumb
puffing with excitement.
"Hey, Steve!" he yelped. "What you think? Joe Ritchie's in port
with Terror."
"Well?" I said.
"Well, gee whiz," he said, "you mean to set there and let on like
you don't know nothin' about Terror, Ritchie's fightin' brindle bull?
Why, he's the pit champeen of the Asiatics. He's killed more fightin'
dogs than--"
"Yeah, yeah," I said impatiently. "I know all about him. I been
listenin' to what a bear-cat he is for the last year, in every Asiatic
port I've touched."
"Well," said Porkey, "I'm afraid we ain't goin' to git to see him
perform."
"Why not?" asked Johnnie Blinn, a shifty-eyed bar-keep.
"Well," said Porkey, "they ain't a dog in Singapore to match
ag'in' him. Fritz Steinmann, which owns the pit and runs the dog
fights, has scoured the port and they just ain't no canine which their
owners'll risk ag'in' Terror. Just my luck. The chance of a lifetime
to see the fightin'est dog of 'em all perform. And they's no first-
class mutt to toss in with him. Say, Steve, why don't you let Mike
fight him?"
"Not a chance," I growled. "Mike gets plenty of scrappin' on the
streets. Besides, I'll tell you straight, I think dog fightin' for
money is a dirty low-down game. Take a couple of fine, upstandin'
dogs, full of ginger and fightin' heart, and throw 'em in a concrete
pit to tear each other's throats out, just so a bunch of four-flushin'
tin-horns like you, which couldn't take a punch or give one either,
can make a few lousy dollars bettin' on 'em."
"But they likes to fight," argued Porkey. "It's their nature."
"It's the nature of any red-blooded critter to fight. Man or dog!"
I said. "Let 'em fight on the streets, for bones or for fun, or just
to see which is the best dog. But pit-fightin' to the death is just
too dirty for me to fool with, and I ain't goin' to get Mike into no
such mess."
"Aw, let him alone, Porkey," sneered Johnnie Blinn nastily. "He's
too chicken-hearted to mix in them rough games. Ain't you, Sailor?"
"Belay that," I roared. "You keep a civil tongue in your head, you
wharfside rat. I never did like you nohow, and one more crack like
that gets you this." I brandished my huge fist at him and he turned
pale and started scrubbing the bar like he was trying for a record.
"I wantcha to know that Mike can lick this Terror mutt," I said,
glaring at Porkey. "I'm fed up hearin' fellers braggin' on that
brindle murderer. Mike can lick him. He can lick any dog in this lousy
port, just like I can lick any man here. If Terror meets Mike on the
street and gets fresh, he'll get his belly-full. But Mike ain't goin'
to get mixed up in no dirty racket like Fritz Steinmann runs and you
can lay to that." I made the last statement in a voice like a
irritated bull, and smashed my fist down on the table so hard I
splintered the wood, and made the decanters bounce on the bar.
Breed of Battle
ME AND MY WHITE BULLDOG Mike was peaceably taking our beer in a
joint on the waterfront when Porkey Straus come piling in, plumb
puffing with excitement.
"Hey, Steve!" he yelped. "What you think? Joe Ritchie's in port
with Terror."
"Well?" I said.
"Well, gee whiz," he said, "you mean to set there and let on like
you don't know nothin' about Terror, Ritchie's fightin' brindle bull?
Why, he's the pit champeen of the Asiatics. He's killed more fightin'
dogs than--"
"Yeah, yeah," I said impatiently. "I know all about him. I been
listenin' to what a bear-cat he is for the last year, in every Asiatic
port I've touched."
"Well," said Porkey, "I'm afraid we ain't goin' to git to see him
perform."
"Why not?" asked Johnnie Blinn, a shifty-eyed bar-keep.
"Well," said Porkey, "they ain't a dog in Singapore to match
ag'in' him. Fritz Steinmann, which owns the pit and runs the dog
fights, has scoured the port and they just ain't no canine which their
owners'll risk ag'in' Terror. Just my luck. The chance of a lifetime
to see the fightin'est dog of 'em all perform. And they's no first-
class mutt to toss in with him. Say, Steve, why don't you let Mike
fight him?"
"Not a chance," I growled. "Mike gets plenty of scrappin' on the
streets. Besides, I'll tell you straight, I think dog fightin' for
money is a dirty low-down game. Take a couple of fine, upstandin'
dogs, full of ginger and fightin' heart, and throw 'em in a concrete
pit to tear each other's throats out, just so a bunch of four-flushin'
tin-horns like you, which couldn't take a punch or give one either,
can make a few lousy dollars bettin' on 'em."
"But they likes to fight," argued Porkey. "It's their nature."
"It's the nature of any red-blooded critter to fight. Man or dog!"
I said. "Let 'em fight on the streets, for bones or for fun, or just
to see which is the best dog. But pit-fightin' to the death is just
too dirty for me to fool with, and I ain't goin' to get Mike into no
such mess."
"Aw, let him alone, Porkey," sneered Johnnie Blinn nastily. "He's
too chicken-hearted to mix in them rough games. Ain't you, Sailor?"
"Belay that," I roared. "You keep a civil tongue in your head, you
wharfside rat. I never did like you nohow, and one more crack like
that gets you this." I brandished my huge fist at him and he turned
pale and started scrubbing the bar like he was trying for a record.
"I wantcha to know that Mike can lick this Terror mutt," I said,
glaring at Porkey. "I'm fed up hearin' fellers braggin' on that
brindle murderer. Mike can lick him. He can lick any dog in this lousy
port, just like I can lick any man here. If Terror meets Mike on the
street and gets fresh, he'll get his belly-full. But Mike ain't goin'
to get mixed up in no dirty racket like Fritz Steinmann runs and you
can lay to that." I made the last statement in a voice like a
irritated bull, and smashed my fist down on the table so hard I
splintered the wood, and made the decanters bounce on the bar.
joint on the waterfront when Porkey Straus come piling in, plumb
puffing with excitement.
"Hey, Steve!" he yelped. "What you think? Joe Ritchie's in port
with Terror."
"Well?" I said.
"Well, gee whiz," he said, "you mean to set there and let on like
you don't know nothin' about Terror, Ritchie's fightin' brindle bull?
Why, he's the pit champeen of the Asiatics. He's killed more fightin'
dogs than--"
"Yeah, yeah," I said impatiently. "I know all about him. I been
listenin' to what a bear-cat he is for the last year, in every Asiatic
port I've touched."
"Well," said Porkey, "I'm afraid we ain't goin' to git to see him
perform."
"Why not?" asked Johnnie Blinn, a shifty-eyed bar-keep.
"Well," said Porkey, "they ain't a dog in Singapore to match
ag'in' him. Fritz Steinmann, which owns the pit and runs the dog
fights, has scoured the port and they just ain't no canine which their
owners'll risk ag'in' Terror. Just my luck. The chance of a lifetime
to see the fightin'est dog of 'em all perform. And they's no first-
class mutt to toss in with him. Say, Steve, why don't you let Mike
fight him?"
"Not a chance," I growled. "Mike gets plenty of scrappin' on the
streets. Besides, I'll tell you straight, I think dog fightin' for
money is a dirty low-down game. Take a couple of fine, upstandin'
dogs, full of ginger and fightin' heart, and throw 'em in a concrete
pit to tear each other's throats out, just so a bunch of four-flushin'
tin-horns like you, which couldn't take a punch or give one either,
can make a few lousy dollars bettin' on 'em."
"But they likes to fight," argued Porkey. "It's their nature."
"It's the nature of any red-blooded critter to fight. Man or dog!"
I said. "Let 'em fight on the streets, for bones or for fun, or just
to see which is the best dog. But pit-fightin' to the death is just
too dirty for me to fool with, and I ain't goin' to get Mike into no
such mess."
"Aw, let him alone, Porkey," sneered Johnnie Blinn nastily. "He's
too chicken-hearted to mix in them rough games. Ain't you, Sailor?"
"Belay that," I roared. "You keep a civil tongue in your head, you
wharfside rat. I never did like you nohow, and one more crack like
that gets you this." I brandished my huge fist at him and he turned
pale and started scrubbing the bar like he was trying for a record.
"I wantcha to know that Mike can lick this Terror mutt," I said,
glaring at Porkey. "I'm fed up hearin' fellers braggin' on that
brindle murderer. Mike can lick him. He can lick any dog in this lousy
port, just like I can lick any man here. If Terror meets Mike on the
street and gets fresh, he'll get his belly-full. But Mike ain't goin'
to get mixed up in no dirty racket like Fritz Steinmann runs and you
can lay to that." I made the last statement in a voice like a
irritated bull, and smashed my fist down on the table so hard I
splintered the wood, and made the decanters bounce on the bar.
0.99
In Stock
5
1
Breed of Battle
Breed of Battle
Related collections and offers
0.99
In Stock
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940013740280 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/07/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 22 KB |
About the Author
From the B&N Reads Blog