When the time-gun boomed from Edinburgh Castle, Bobby gave a startled
yelp. He was only a little country dog--the very youngest and smallest
and shaggiest of Skye terriers--bred on a heathery slope of the Pentland
hills, where the loudest sound was the bark of a collie or the tinkle
of a sheep-bell. That morning he had come to the weekly market with Auld
Jock, a farm laborer, and the Grassmarket of the Scottish capital lay in
the narrow valley at the southern base of Castle Crag. Two hundred
feet above it the time-gun was mounted in the half-moon battery on an
overhanging, crescent-shaped ledge of rock. In any part of the city
the report of the one-o'clock gun was sufficiently alarming, but in
the Grassmarket it was an earth-rending explosion directly overhead.
It needed to be heard but once there to be registered on even a little
dog's brain. Bobby had heard it many times, and he never failed to yelp
a sharp protest at the outrage to his ears; but, as the gunshot was
always followed by a certain happy event, it started in his active
little mind a train of pleasant associations.
In Bobby's day of youth, and that was in 1858, when Queen Victoria was a
happy wife and mother, with all her bairns about her knees in Windsor
or Balmoral, the Grassmarket of Edinburgh was still a bit of the Middle
Ages, as picturesquely decaying and Gothic as German Nuremberg. Beside
the classic corn exchange, it had no modern buildings. North and south,
along its greatest length, the sunken quadrangle was faced by tall, old,
timber-fronted houses of stone, plastered like swallows' nests to the
rocky slopes behind them.
Across the eastern end, where the valley suddenly narrowed to the
ravine-like street of the Cowgate, the market was spanned by the
lofty, crowded arches of George IV Bridge. This high-hung, viaduct
thoroughfare, that carried a double line of buildings within its
parapet, leaped the gorge, from the tall, old, Gothic rookeries on High
Street ridge, just below the Castle esplanade. It cleared the roofs
of the tallest, oldest houses that swarmed up the steep banks from the
Cowgate, and ran on, by easy descent, to the main gateway of Greyfriars
kirkyard at the lower top of the southern rise.
Greyfriars' two kirks formed together, under one continuous roof, a
long, low, buttressed building without tower or spire. The new kirk was
of Queen Anne's day, but the old kirk was built before ever the Pilgrims
set sail for America. It had been but one of several sacred buildings,
set in a monastery garden that sloped pleasantly to the open valley of
the Grassmarket, and looked up the Castle heights unhindered. In Bobby's
day this garden had shrunk to a long, narrow, high-piled burying-ground,
that extended from the rear of the line of buildings that fronted on the
market, up the slope, across the hilltop, and to where the land began
to fall away again, down the Burghmuir. From the Grassmarket, kirk and
kirkyard lay hidden behind and above the crumbling grandeur of noble
halls and mansions that had fallen to the grimiest tenements of
Edinburgh's slums. From the end of the bridge approach there was a
glimpse of massive walls, of pointed windows, and of monumental tombs
through a double-leafed gate of wrought iron, that was alcoved and
wedged in between the ancient guildhall of the candlemakers and a row of
prosperous little shops in Greyfriars Place.
A rock-rimmed quarry pit, in the very heart of Old Edinburgh, the
Grassmarket was a place of historic echoes. The yelp of a little dog
there would scarce seem worthy of record. More in harmony with its
stirring history was the report of the time-gun. At one o'clock every
day, there was a puff of smoke high up in the blue or gray or squally
sky, then a deafening crash and a back fire fusillade of echoes. The
oldest frequenter of the market never got used to it. On Wednesday, as
the shot broke across the babel of shrill bargaining, every man in
the place jumped, and not one was quicker of recovery than wee Bobby.
Instantly ashamed, as an intelligent little dog who knew the import
of the gun should be, Bobby denied his alarm in a tiny pink yawn of
boredom. Then he went briskly about his urgent business of finding Auld
Jock.
The market was closed. In five minutes the great open space was as empty
of living men as Greyfriars kirkyard on a week-day. Drovers and hostlers
disappeared at once into the cheap and noisy entertainment of the White
Hart Inn that fronted the market and set its squalid back against Castle
Rock. Farmers rapidly deserted it for the clean country. Dwellers in the
tenements darted up wynds and blind closes, climbed twisting turnpike
stairs to windy roosts under the gables, or they scuttled through noble
doors into foul courts and hallways. Beggars and pickpockets swarmed
under the arches of the bridge, to swell the evil smelling human river
that flowed at the dark and slimy bottom of the Cowgate.
A chill November wind tore at the creaking iron cross of the Knights of
St. John, on the highest gable of the Temple tenements, that turned its
decaying back on the kirkyard of the Greyfriars. Low clouds were tangled
and torn on the Castle battlements. A few horses stood about, munching
oats from feed-boxes. Flocks of sparrows fluttered down from timbered
galleries and rocky ledges to feast on scattered grain. Swallows wheeled
in wide, descending spirals from mud villages under the cornices to
catch flies. Rats scurried out of holes and gleaned in the deserted corn
exchange. And 'round and 'round the empty market-place raced the frantic
little terrier in search of Auld Jock.
Bobby knew, as well as any man, that it was the dinner hour. With the
time-gun it was Auld Jock's custom to go up to a snug little restaurant;
that was patronized chiefly by the decent poor small shopkeepers,
clerks, tenant farmers, and medical students living in cheap
lodgings--in Greyfriars Place. There, in Ye Olde Greyfriars
Dining-Rooms, owned by Mr. John Traill, and four doors beyond the
kirkyard gate, was a cozy little inglenook that Auld Jock and Bobby
had come to look upon as their own. At its back, above a recessed oaken
settle and a table, a tiny paned window looked up and over a retaining
wall into the ancient place of the dead.
The view of the heaped-up and crowded mounds and thickets of old slabs
and throughstones, girt all about by time-stained monuments and vaults,
and shut in on the north and east by the backs of shops and lofty
slum tenements, could not be said to be cheerful. It suited Auld Jock,
however, for what mind he had was of a melancholy turn. From his place
on the floor, between his master's hob-nailed boots, Bobby could not see
the kirkyard, but it would not, in any case, have depressed his spirits.
He did not know the face of death and, a merry little ruffian of a
terrier, he was ready for any adventure.
On the stone gate pillar was a notice in plain English that no dogs were
permitted in Greyfriars. As well as if he could read, Bobby knew
that the kirkyard was forbidden ground. He had learned that by bitter
experience. Once, when the little wicket gate that held the two tall
leaves ajar by day, chanced to be open, he had joyously chased a cat
across the graves and over the western wall onto the broad green lawn of
Heriot's Hospital.
There the little dog's escapade bred other mischief, for Heriot's
Hospital was not a hospital at all, in the modern English sense of being
a refuge for the sick. Built and christened in a day when a Stuart king
reigned in Holyrood Palace, and French was spoken in the Scottish
court, Heriot's was a splendid pile of a charity school, all towers
and battlements, and cheerful color, and countless beautiful windows.
Endowed by a beruffed and doubleted goldsmith, “Jinglin' Geordie”
Heriot, who had “nae brave laddie o' his ain,” it was devoted to the
care and education of “puir orphan an' faderless boys.” There it
had stood for more than two centuries, in a spacious park, like the
country-seat of a Lowland laird, but hemmed in by sordid markets and
swarming slums. The region round about furnished an unfailing supply
of “puir orphan an' faderless boys” who were as light-hearted and
irresponsible as Bobby.
Hundreds of the Heriot laddies were out in the noon recess, playing
cricket and leap-frog, when Bobby chased that unlucky cat over the
kirkyard wall. He could go no farther himself, but the laddies took up
the pursuit, yelling like Highland clans of old in a foray across the
border. The unholy din disturbed the sacred peace of the kirkyard.
Bobby dashed back, barking furiously, in pure exuberance of spirits. He
tumbled gaily over grassy hummocks, frisked saucily around terrifying
old mausoleums, wriggled under the most enticing of low-set table tombs
and sprawled, exhausted, but still happy and noisy, at Auld Jock's feet.
It was a scandalous thing to happen in any kirkyard! The angry caretaker
was instantly out of his little stone lodge by the gate and taking Auld
Jock sharply to task for Bobby's misbehavior. The pious old shepherd,
shocked himself and publicly disgraced, stood, bonnet in hand, humbly
apologetic. Seeing that his master was getting the worst of it, Bobby
rushed into the fray, an animated little muff of pluck and fury, and
nipped the caretaker's shins. There was a howl of pain, and a “maist
michty” word that made the ancient tombs stand aghast. Master and dog
were hustled outside the gate and into a rabble of jeering slum gamin.
What a to-do about a miserable cat! To Bobby there was no logic at all
in the denouement to this swift, exciting drama. But he understood Auld
Jock's shame and displeasure perfectly. Good-tempered as he was gay and
clever, the little dog took his punishment meekly, and he remembered
it. Thereafter, he passed the kirk yard gate decorously. If he saw a cat
that needed harrying he merely licked his little red chops--the outward
sign of a desperate self-control. And, a true sport, he bore no malice
toward the caretaker.
During that first summer of his life Bobby learned many things. He
learned that he might chase rabbits, squirrels and moor-fowl, and
sea-gulls and whaups that came up to feed in plowed fields. Rats and
mice around byre and dairy were legitimate prey; but he learned that he
must not annoy sheep and sheep-dogs, nor cattle, horses and chickens.
And he discovered that, unless he hung close to Auld Jock's heels, his
freedom was in danger from a wee lassie who adored him. He was no lady's
lap-dog. From the bairnie's soft cosseting he aye fled to Auld Jock
and the rough hospitality of the sheep fold. Being exact opposites in
temperaments, but alike in tastes, Bobby and Auld Jock were inseparable.
In the quiet corner of Mr. Traill's crowded dining-room they spent the
one idle hour of the week together, happily. Bobby had the leavings of a
herring or haddie, for a rough little Skye will eat anything from smoked
fish to moor-fowl eggs, and he had the tidbit of a farthing bone to
worry at his leisure. Auld Jock smoked his cutty pipe, gazed at the fire
or into the kirk-yard, and meditated on nothing in particular.
In some strange way that no dog could understand, Bobby had been
separated from Auld Jock that November morning. The tenant of Cauldbrae
farm had driven the cart in, himself, and that was unusual. Immediately
he had driven out again, leaving Auld Jock behind, and that was quite
outside Bobby's brief experience of life. Beguiled to the lofty and
coveted driver's seat where, with lolling tongue, he could view this
interesting world between the horse's ears, Bobby had been spirited out
of the city and carried all the way down and up to the hilltop toll-bar
of Fairmilehead. It could not occur to his loyal little heart that this
treachery was planned nor, stanch little democrat that he was, that
the farmer was really his owner, and that he could not follow a humbler
master of his own choosing. He might have been carried to the distant
farm, and shut safely in the byre with the cows for the night, but for
an incautious remark of the farmer. With the first scent of the native
heather the horse quickened his pace, and, at sight of the purple slopes
of the Pentlands looming homeward, a fond thought at the back of the
man's mind very naturally took shape in speech.
“Eh, Bobby; the wee lassie wull be at the tap o' the brae to race ye
hame.”
Bobby pricked his drop ears. Within a narrow limit, and concerning
familiar things, the understanding of human speech by these intelligent
little terriers is very truly remarkable. At mention of the wee lassie
he looked behind for his rough old friend and unfailing refuge. Auld
Jock's absence discovered, Bobby promptly dropped from the seat of honor
and from the cart tail, sniffed the smoke of Edinboro' town and faced
right about. To the farmer's peremptory call he returned the spicy
repartee of a cheerful bark. It was as much as to say:
“Dinna fash yersel'! I ken what I'm aboot.”
After an hour's hard run back over the dipping and rising country road
and a long quarter circuit of the city, Bobby found the high-walled,
winding way into the west end of the Grassmarket. To a human being
afoot there was a shorter cut, but the little dog could only retrace
the familiar route of the farm carts. It was a notable feat for a small
creature whose tufted legs were not more than six inches in length,
whose thatch of long hair almost swept the roadway and caught at every
burr and bramble, and who was still so young that his nose could not be
said to be educated.
In the market-place he ran here and there through the crowd, hopefully
investigating narrow closes that were mere rifts in precipices of
buildings; nosing outside stairs, doorways, stables, bridge arches,
standing carts, and even hob-nailed boots. He yelped at the crash of the
gun, but it was another matter altogether that set his little heart to
palpitating with alarm. It was the dinner-hour, and where was Auld Jock?
Ah! A happy thought: his master had gone to dinner!
A human friend would have resented the idea of such base desertion
and sulked. But in a little dog's heart of trust there is no room for
suspicion. The thought simply lent wings to Bobby's tired feet. As
the market-place emptied he chased at the heels of laggards, up the
crescent-shaped rise of Candlemakers Row, and straight on to the
familiar dining-rooms. Through the forest of table and chair and human
legs he made his way to the back, to find a soldier from the Castle, in
smart red coat and polished boots, lounging in Auld Jock's inglenook.
Bobby stood stock still for a shocked instant. Then he howled
dismally and bolted for the door. Mr. John Traill, the smooth-shaven,
hatchet-faced proprietor, standing midway in shirtsleeves and white
apron, caught the flying terrier between his legs and gave him a
friendly clap on the side.
“Did you come by your ainsel' with a farthing in your silky-purse ear to
buy a bone, Bobby? Whaur's Auld Jock?”
A fear may be crowded back into the mind and stoutly denied so long as
it is not named. At the good landlord's very natural question “Whaur's
Auld Jock?” there was the shape of the little dog's fear that he had
lost his master. With a whimpering cry he struggled free. Out of the
door he went, like a shot. He tumbled down the steep curve and doubled
on his tracks around the market-place.
At his onslaught, the sparrows rose like brown leaves on a gust of wind,
and drifted down again. A cold mist veiled the Castle heights. From
the stone crown of the ancient Cathedral of St. Giles, on High Street,
floated the melody of “The Bluebells of Scotland.” No day was too bleak
for bell-ringer McLeod to climb the shaking ladder in the windy tower
and play the music bells during the hour that Edinburgh dined. Bobby
forgot to dine that day, first in his distracted search, and then in his
joy of finding his master.
For, all at once, in the very strangest place, in the very strangest
way, Bobby came upon Auld Jock. A rat scurrying out from a foul and
narrow passage that gave to the rear of the White Hart Inn, pointed the
little dog to a nook hitherto undiscovered by his curious nose. Hidden
away between the noisy tavern and the grim, island crag was the old
cock-fighting pit of a ruder day. There, in a broken-down carrier's
cart, abandoned among the nameless abominations of publichouse refuse,
Auld Jock lay huddled in his greatcoat of hodden gray and his shepherd's
plaid. On a bundle of clothing tied in a tartan kerchief for a pillow,
he lay very still and breathing heavily.
Bobby barked as if he would burst his lungs. He barked so long, so loud,
and so furiously, running 'round and 'round the cart and under it and
yelping at every turn, that a slatternly scullery maid opened a door and
angrily bade him “no' to deave folk wi' 'is blatterin'.” Auld Jock she
did not see at all in the murky pit or, if she saw him, thought him some
drunken foreign sailor from Leith harbor. When she went in, she slammed
the door and lighted the gas.
Whether from some instinct of protection of his helpless master in that
foul and hostile place, or because barking had proved to be of no use
Bobby sat back on his haunches and considered this strange, disquieting
thing. It was not like Auld Jock to sleep in the daytime, or so soundly,
at any time, that barking would not awaken him. A clever and resourceful
dog, Bobby crouched back against the farthest wall, took a running leap
to the top of the low boots, dug his claws into the stout, home knitted
stockings, and scrambled up over Auld Jock's legs into the cart. In an
instant he poked his little black mop of a wet muzzle into his master's
face and barked once, sharply, in his ear.
To Bobby's delight Auld Jock sat up and blinked his eyes. The old eyes
were brighter, the grizzled face redder than was natural, but such
matters were quite outside of the little dog's ken. It was a dazed
moment before the man remembered that Bobby should not be there.
He frowned down at the excited little creature, who was wagging
satisfaction from his nose-tip to the end of his crested tail, in a
puzzled effort to remember why.
“Eh, Bobby!” His tone was one of vague reproof. “Nae doot ye're fair
satisfied wi' yer ainsel'.”
Bobby's feathered tail drooped, but it still quivered, all ready to wag
again at the slightest encouragement. Auld Jock stared at him stupidly,
his dizzy head in his hands. A very tired, very draggled little dog,
Bobby dropped beside his master, panting, subdued by the reproach, but
happy. His soft eyes, veiled by the silvery fringe that fell from his
high forehead, were deep brown pools of affection. Auld Jock forgot, by
and by, that Bobby should not be there, and felt only the comfort of his
companionship.
“Weel, Bobby,” he began again, uncertainly. And then, because his
Scotch peasant reticence had been quite broken down by Bobby's shameless
devotion, so that he told the little dog many things that he cannily
concealed from human kind, he confided the strange weakness and
dizziness in the head that had overtaken him: “Auld Jock is juist fair
silly the day, bonny wee laddie.”
Down came a shaking, hot old hand in a rough caress, and up a gallant
young tail to wave like a banner. All was right with the little dog's
world again. But it was plain, even to Bobby, that something had gone
wrong with Auld Jock. It was the man who wore the air of a culprit. A
Scotch laborer does not lightly confess to feeling “fair silly,” nor
sleep away the busy hours of daylight. The old man was puzzled and
humiliated by this discreditable thing. A human friend would have
understood his plight, led the fevered man out of that bleak and fetid
cul-de-sac, tucked him into a warm bed, comforted him with a hot drink,
and then gone swiftly for skilled help. Bobby knew only that his master
had unusual need of love.
Very, very early a dog learns that life is not as simple a matter to his
master as it is to himself. There are times when he reads trouble, that
he cannot help or understand, in the man's eye and voice. Then he
can only look his love and loyalty, wistfully, as if he felt his own
shortcoming in the matter of speech. And if the trouble is so great that
the master forgets to eat his dinner; forgets, also, the needs of his
faithful little friend, it is the dog's dear privilege to bear neglect
and hunger without complaint. Therefore, when Auld Jock lay down again
and sank, almost at once, into sodden sleep, Bobby snuggled in the
hollow of his master's arm and nuzzled his nose in his master's neck.