But Bob, how can I describe him, the old, patient, faithful dog! He was
large and powerful, dark brown with darker stripes in color, part bull
in breed, but just as gentle and kind in disposition as possible. He had
pulled the heavy loads so long he was almost blind, teeth almost gone
and rheumatism so bad it was hard for him to get upon his feet when he
laid down. When grandpa came bringing Bob he had said in his broken
English, "Mr. Whitney you take me, you take Bob too. Me can't stay if
Bob no stay." The old dog seemed to know what his master was saying, for
he came close to him and looked straight into father's face. Then father
said, "Yes, Bob can stay too." He tried to show his delight with his
master by jumping about. It would be hard to tell which of us Bob loved
the best. I can see him now sitting in some out-of-the-way corner
watching us with his great, almost human eyes. He had not always been
kindly treated. He seemed to be so afraid to be in anybody's way, and
when he saw us petting the other two dogs he would slink away with head
down and look so dejected. The young dogs, too, knew he was a stranger
and growled at him and bossed him about. Then poor old Bob would go back
of the house and cry and whine so pitifully. At last father could stand
it no longer and gave the order Bob must not be annoyed any more and
must have a bed and lay behind the stove in the big corner, and that no
one was ever to speak a cross word or strike Bob. Grandpa cried with
delight.