RAB AND HIS FRIENDS.

have said, he was brindled, and gray like
Rubislaw granite; his hair short, hard,
and close, like a lion’s; his body thick-
set, like a little bull—a sort of compressed
Hercules of a dog. He must have been
ninety pounds’ weight, at the least; he
had a large, blunt head ; his muzzle black
as night, his mouth blacker than any
night, a tooth or two—being all he had—
gleaming out of his jaws of darkness.
His head was scarred with the records of
old wounds, a sort of series of fields of
battle all over it; one eye out, one ear
cropped as close as was Archbishop Leigh-
ton’s father’s ; the remaining eye had the
power of two, and above it, and in con-
stant communication with it, was a tat-
tered rag of an ear, which was forever un-
furling itself like an old flag; and then
that bud of a tail, about one inch long, if
it could in any sense be said to be long,
being as broad as long—the mobility, the

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