RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 



Bob and I buried the Game Chicken that 

 night (we had not much of a tea) in the back- 

 green of his house, in Melville Street, No. 1 7, 

 with considerable gravity and silence ; and 

 being at the time in the Iliad, and, like all 

 boys, Trojans, we of course called him Hector. 



Six years have passed a long time for a 

 boy and a dog : Bob Ainslie is off to the 

 wars ; I am a medical student, and clerk at 

 Minto House Hospital. 



Rab I saw almost every week, on the 

 Wednesday ; and we had much pleasant in- 

 timacy. I found the way to his heart by 

 frequent scratching of his huge head, and 

 an occasional bone. When I did not notice 

 him he would plant himself straight before 

 me, and stand wagging that bud of a tail, and 

 looking up, with his head a little to the one 

 side. His master I occasionally saw ; he 

 used to call me "Maister John," but was 

 laconic as any Spartan. 



One fine October afternoon I was leaving 



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