White Monarch and the Gas-House Pup - A Story of Pit Bull Dogs

By R. G. Kirk

Originally published in 1917. An evocative and stirring tale of two American fighting dogs. White Monarch is a pure bred white Bulldog and a show champion. The Gas-House Pup or "McDonald's Grip" was a famous brindle Pit Bull Terrier. This emotive story of two dogs and their respective owners concludes with a vivid description of an epic five hour pit fight. The present publishers have included a prologue detailing some early history and notes on The Gas-House Dog.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Read Books Ltd.
• Release date: Mar 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781446546802

Book preview

84.

White Monarch and the

Gas-House Pup

I

MCDONALD’S Grip and Mr. Slugs O’Boyle had just rounded the northeast corner of Madison Avenue and Twenty-sixth Street when the White Monarch’s limousine drew up to the curb; and, simultaneously with the opening of the door of the car, the leash in Mr. O’Boyle’s huge fist snapped rigid. And the White Monarch of Glenmere, stepping lazily down from his car, suddenly turned solid in his tracks.

Miss Audrey deHavin screamed and caught her skirts up about her so hastily and high that approximately ten dollars’ worth of golden silk hosiery flashed into the view of an appreciative metropolis.

Mr. Forsythe Wentworth deHavin, who was handing her out of the Monarch’s car, called out a command in a voice of mezzo-tenor sternness.

I say, fellow, he said loftily, hold more tightly to your leash there! You’ll have your beastly cur upon the Monarch in a moment.

Mr. A. Beckwith deHavin, III, however, dashed out of the auto, past his expostulating brother and sister, and did something. He snatched up the White Monarch of Glenmere just as Mr. O’Boyle, with a sneer on his thin lips, allowed the Gas-House Pup to jerk the leather out of his hand. But, instead of meeting in the snowy coat of the Monarch, the teeth of the leaping dog clicked in the air. A quick twist of the lithe waist of the third Beckwith deHavin had swung his burden back of him, and the hurtling brindle-and-white flash carried past, right into the Monarch’s car through the open door, which was slammed quickly shut, leaving the Grip alone, confounded, and perhaps a little frightened in strange quarters, somewhat more luxurious than his box of straw in the Interborough Gas Company’s stables.

‘Beastly cur,’ huh? Mr. Slugs O’Boyle was snarling into the faces of Miss Audrey and Mr. Forsythe deHavin, as Mr. A. Beckwith replaced the squirming Monarch on the sidewalk. Fat chance for your white snob to get a champeenship in there to-day if I had only turned the ‘beastly cur’ loose to pasture on him a second sooner. His champeenship! And his mouth went wry with scorn. "Of what? Of a thousand stalls of milk-fed pussy-hounds. Where a pit bull, such as is all dog, ain’t even allowed to bench!

B’Chees, I believe the bunch of you stuffed shirts is afraid to let your candy pups go up agin a honest pit terry, even in the show ring, let alone the pit, for fear the judge would get his eye full wanst of a honest-to-God dog!

‘Beastly cur,’ huh? he repeated, and his lips pulled away from some broken teeth. Wot’s his name? Champeen Pure White Percy’d be my guess. There’s just wan place where champeens is made — the pit! And him! In the pit!

And Mr. Slugs O’Boyle, in his contempt, puckered up his mouth and thrust out his chin toward the spot where the White Monarch of Glenmere was sniffing very doggily at the lower crack of his car door, and looking back questioningly over his shoulder at A. Beckwith deHavin, with that certain uptilt of chin and backroll of eyes which have been patented for bulldoggy use the wide world over.

An ugly stain splashed out on the Monarch’s perfectly groomed coat. Upon which Miss Audrey deHavin screamed again, horrified: and it was she, this time, who caught up the heavy animal, careless of the moist smear of my Lady Nicotine against the yellow silk of her sport coat.

Mr. Forsythe Wentworth deHavin, true to form, also did something useless.

I owe your ugly brute an apology, my dear but filthy mucker, said this narrow-chested gentleman. I should have called the animal on the other end of your dog’s leash a beastly cur.

And he raised his light walking stick backhanded over his shoulder.

Mr. Slugs O’Boyle grinned crooked amusement. He laid the back of his left hand along his right cheek, hunched his broad back, lowered his chin on his chest, and drew back his right arm a trifle. The switching cane would have found only the button of his tight-pulled cap uncovered; and the counter trembling in that right arm would have laid Mr. Forsythe Wentworth deHavin on the social shelf for as many weeks as it would have taken his dentist to make