a nose at all.
From a wide chest his body narrowed until it joined a short, twisted
tail, and his front legs were bowed, as though he had been in the habit
of riding a horse all his life.

Injun gazed at this strange being with something as near surprise as he
ever allowed himself. "Him look like frog," he declared.

"Why, it's a bulldog, an English bulldog!" exclaimed Whitey, who had
seen many of this breed in the East.

"More like bullfrog," Injun maintained solemnly. "What him do--eat
bulls?"

The brute's appearance surely was forbidding enough, and if Injun had
been subject to fear, which he wasn't, he would have felt it now. He did
not know, as many better informed people do not, that beneath this
breed's fierce appearance lies the deepest of dog love for a
master--and that's a pretty deep love--and that no other "friend of man"
holds gentler, kinder feeling for the human race than this queerly
shaped animal. And this in spite of the fact that he owes the very
queerness of his appearance to man, who has had him bred in that shape,
through countless generations, to the end that the poor, faithful beast
may do brutal deeds in the bull ring and the dog pit.

Whitey did not know all this--that the wide jaws were designed for a
grip on the enemy, the snub nose to permit breathing while that grip was
held, the widespread legs to secure a firm ground hold; in short, that
he was looking at an animal built for conflict, which had the courage of
a lion where his enemies were concerned, and the love of a wild thing
for its young where its human friends were concerned.

But Whitey knew the latter part of it--that bulldogs were friendly, and
usually misunderstood, and he proceeded to let Injun in on his
knowledge. "You needn't be afraid of him," he said.

"No 'fraid, but no go too close," replied the cautious Injun.

Now that this dog was in reach of humans he sat down, opened his
cave-like mouth, allowing a few inches of tongue to loll out, panted,
and looked amiably at the boys. He certainly was tired.

"He's not only tired, he's thirsty," said Whitey, and ran to the stable
for water.

And while he was gone the bulldog and Injun looked at each other--Injun
with his bronze skin, his long, straight hair, his calm face, and his
steady, dark eyes. This descendant of thousands of fighting men regarded
that descendant of thousands of fighting dogs. And what they thought of
each other the dog couldn't tell, and Injun di