pack there was one Indian dog of large size--almost as large as Crusoe
himself--which kept well in the rear, and apparently urged the lesser
dogs on. The little dogs didn't object, for little dogs are generally
the most pugnacious. At this big dog Crusoe directed a pointed glance,
but said nothing. Meanwhile a particularly small and vicious cur, with
a mere rag of a tail, crept round by the back of the tent, and coming
upon Crusoe in rear, snapped at his tail sharply, and then fled
shrieking with terror and surprise, no doubt, at its own temerity.

Crusoe did not bark; he seldom barked; he usually either said nothing,
or gave utterance to a prolonged roar of indignation of the most
terrible character, with barks, as it were, mingled through it. It
somewhat resembled that peculiar and well-known species of thunder,
the prolonged roll of which is marked at short intervals in its
course by cannon-like cracks. It was a continuous, but, so to speak,
_knotted_ roar.

On receiving the snap, Crusoe gave forth _the_ roar with a majesty and
power that scattered the pugnacious front rank of the enemy to the
winds. Those that still remained, half stupified, he leaped over with
a huge bound, and alighted, fangs first, on the back of the big
dog. There was one hideous yell, a muffled scramble of an instant's
duration, and the big dog lay dead upon the plain!

It was an awful thing to do, but Crusoe evidently felt that the
peculiar circumstances of the case required that an example should be
made; and to say truth, all things considered, we cannot blame him.
The news must have been carried at once through the canine portion of
the camp, for Crusoe was never interfered with again after that.