ormal size.
Round in mad, eager pursuit rattle the terriers, thirsting for her
blood. The _syce_ dashes forward, vainly hoping to turn them from their
quest. Now a village dog, roused from his morning nap, bounds out with
a demoniac howl, which is caught up and echoed by all the curs in the
village.

Meanwhile the row inside the hut is fiendish. The sleeping family
rudely roused by the yelping pack, utter the most discordant screams.
The women with garments fluttering behind them, rush out beating their
breasts, thinking the very devil is loose. The wails of the unfortunate
cat mingle with the short snapping barks of the pack, or a howl of
anguish as puss inflicts a caress on the face of some too careless or
reckless dog. A howling village cur has rashly ventured too near.
'Pincher' has him by the hind leg before you could say 'Jack Robinson.'
Leaving the dead cat for 'Toby' and 'Nettle' to worry, the whole pack
now fiercely attack the luckless _Pariah_ dog. A dozen of his village
mates dance madly outside the ring, but are too wise or too cowardly to
come to closer quarters. The kangaroo hound has now fairly torn the
rope from the keeper's hand, and with one mighty bound is in the middle
of the fight, scattering the village dogs right and left. The whole
village is now in commotion, the _syce_ and keeper shout the names of
the terriers in vain. Oaths, cries, shouts, and screams mingle with the
yelping and growling of the combatants, till riding up, I disperse the
worrying pack with a few cracks of my hunting whip, and so on again
over the zillah, leaving the women and children to recover their
scattered senses, the old men to grumble over their broken slumbers,
and the boys and young men to wonder at the pluck and dash of the
_Belaitee Kookoor_, or English dog.

The common Pariah dog, or village dog of India, is a perfect cur; a
mangy, carrion-loving, yellow-fanged, howling brute. A most unlovely
and unloving beast. As you pass his village he will bounce out on you
with the fiercest bark and the most menacing snarl; but lo! if a
terrier the size of a teacup but boldly go at him, down goes his tail
like a pump-handle, he turns white with fear, and like the arrant
coward that he is, tumbles on his back and fairly screams for mercy. I
have often been amused to see a great hulking cowardly brute come out
like an avalanche at 'Pincher,' expecting to make one mouthful of him.
What a look of bewilderment he would put on, as