RAB AND HIS FRIENDS.

him: down Niddry Street he goes, bent
on mischief ; up the Cowgate like an arrow
—Bob and I, and our small men, panting
behind.

There, under the single arch of the
South Bridge, is a huge mastiff, sauntering
down the middle of the causeway, as if
with his hands in his pockets: he is old,
gray, brindled, as big as a little Highland
bull, and has the Shaksperian dewlaps
shaking as he goes.

The Chicken makes straight at him, and
fastens on his throat. To our astonish-
ment the great creature does nothing but
stand still, hold himself up, and roar—yes,
roar, a long, serious, remonstrative roar.
How is this? Bob and I are up to them.
fle ts muzzled! The bailies had proclaimed
a general muzzling; and his master, study-
ing strength and economy mainly, had en-
compassed his huge jaws in a home-made
apparatus, constructed out of the leather

12