His square ran into one of those slums that still rub shoulders with the most distinguished situations, and in it he came upon a little crowd assembled round a dogfight.

One of the dogs was being mauled, but the day was muddy, and Shelton, like any well-bred Englishman, had a horror of making himself conspicuous even in a decent cause; he looked for a policeman.

One was standing by, to see fair play, and Shelton made appeal to him.

The official suggested that he should not have brought out a fighting dog, and advised him to throw cold water over them.
"It is n 't my dog," said Shelton.
"Then I should let 'em be," remarked the policeman with evident surprise.
Shelton appealed indefinitely to the lower orders.

The lower orders, however, were afraid of being bitten.
"I would n't meddle with that there job if I was you," said one.
"Nasty breed o' dawg is that." He was therefore obliged to cast away respectability, spoil his trousers and his gloves, break his umbrella, drop his hat in the mud, and separate the dogs.