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 possible ways of ending it.

"Water!" but there was none near, and many cried for it who might have
got it from the well at Blackfriars Wynd.

"Bite the tail!" and a large, vague, benevolent, middle-aged man, more
desirous than wise, with some struggle got the bushy end of Yarrow's
tail into his ample mouth, and bit it with all his might. This was more
than enough for the much-enduring, much-perspiring shepherd, who, with a
gleam of joy over his broad visage, delivered a terrific facer upon our
large, vague, benevolent, middle-aged friend--who went down like a shot.

Still the Chicken holds; death not far off.

"Snuff! a pinch of snuff!" observed a calm, highly-dressed young buck,
with an eye-glass in his eye. "Snuff, indeed!" growled the angry crowd,
affronted and glaring.

"Snuff! a pinch of snuff!" again observes the buck, but with more
urgency; whereupon were produced several open boxes, and from a mull
which may have been at Culloden, he took a pinch, knelt down, and
presented it to the nose of the Chicken. The laws of physiology and of
snuff take their course; the Chicken sneezes, and Yarrow is free.

The young pastoral giant stalks off with Yarrow in his arms--comforting
him.

But the bull-terrier's blood is up, and his soul unsatisfied; he grips
the first dog he meets, and discovering she is not a dog, in Homeric
phrase, he makes a brief sort of _amende_,[101-1] and is off. The boys,
with Bob and me at their head, are after 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 Shakespearian dewlaps shaking as he goes.

The Chicken makes straight at him, and fastens on his throat. To our
astonishment, the great creature does nothing but stand still, holds
himself up, and roar--yes, roar; a long, serious, remonstrative roar.
How is this? Bob and I are up to them. _He is muzzled!_ The bailies had
proclaimed a general muzzling, and his master, studying strength and
economy mainly, had encompassed his huge jaws in a homemade apparatus,
constructed ou