RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 



having its eyes and its heads all bent 

 downwards and inwards, to one common 

 focus. 



Well, Bob and I are up, and find it is not 

 over : a small thoroughbred, white bull-terrier 

 is busy throttling a large shepherd's dog, un- 

 accustomed to war, but not to be trifled with. 

 They are hard at it ; the scientific little fellow 

 doing his work in great style, his pastoral 

 enemy fighting wildly, but with the sharpest 

 of teeth and a great courage. Science and 

 breeding, however, soon had their own ; the 

 Game Chicken, as the premature Bob called 

 him, working his way up, took his final grip 

 of poor Yarrow's throat and he lay gasping 

 and done for. His master, a brown, hand- 

 some, big young shepherd from Tweedsmuir, 

 would have liked to have knocked down any 

 man, would " drink up Esil, or eat a croco- 

 dile," for that part, if he had a chance : it was 

 no use kicking the little dog ; that would only 

 make him hold the closer. Many were the 

 means, shouted out in mouthfuls, of the best 



