Fifteen minutes after the report of the time-gun on Monday, when the
bells were playing their merriest and the dining-rooms were busiest,
Mr. Traill felt such a tiny tug at his trouser-leg that it was repeated
before he gave it attention. In the press of hungry guests Bobby had
little more than room to rise in his pretty, begging attitude. The
landlord was so relieved to see him again, after five conscience
stricken days, that he stooped to clap the little dog on the side and to
greet him with jocose approval.
“Gude dog to fetch Auld Jock--”
With a faint and piteous cry that was heard by no one but Mr. Traill,
Bobby toppled over on the floor. It was a limp little bundle that the
landlord picked up from under foot and held on his arm a moment, while
he looked around for the dog's master. Shocked at not seeing Auld Jock,
by a kind of inspiration he carried the little dog to the inglenook
and laid him down under the familiar settle. Bobby was little more than
breathing, but he opened his silkily veiled brown eyes and licked the
friendly hand that had done this refinement of kindness. It took Mr.
Traill more than a moment to realize the nature of the trouble. A dog
with so thick a fleece of wool, under so crisply waving an outer coat
as Bobby's, may perish for lack of food and show no outward sign of
emaciation.
“The sonsie, wee--why, he's all but starved!”
Pale with pity, Mr. Traill snatched a plate of broth from the hands of
a gaping waiter laddie, set it under Bobby's nose, and watched him begin
to lap the warm liquid eagerly. In the busy place the incident passed
unnoticed. With his usual, brisk decision Mr. Traill turned the backs of
a couple of chairs over against the nearest table, to signify that the
corner was reserved, and he went about his duties with unwonted silence.
As the crowd thinned he returned to the inglenook to find Bobby asleep,
not curled up in a tousled ball, as such a little dog should be, but
stretched on his side and breathing irregularly.
If Bobby was in such straits, how must it be with Auld Jock? This was
the fifth day since the sick old man had fled into the storm. With new
disquiet Mr. Traill remembered a matter that had annoyed him in the
morning, and that he had been inclined to charge to mischievous Heriot
boys. Low down on the outside of his freshly varnished entrance door
were many scratches that Bobby could have made. He may have come for
food on the Sabbath day when the place was closed.
After an hour Bobby woke long enough to eat a generous plate of that
delectable and highly nourishing Scotch dish known as haggis. He fell
asleep again in an easier attitude that relieved the tension on the
landlord's feelings. Confident that the devoted little dog would lead
him straight to his master, Mr. Traill closed the door securely, that he
might not escape unnoticed, and arranged his own worldly affairs so he
could leave them to hirelings on the instant. In the idle time between
dinner and supper he sat down by the fire, lighted his pipe, repented
his unruly tongue, and waited. As the short day darkened to its close
the sunset bugle was blown in the Castle. At the first note, Bobby crept
from under the settle, a little unsteady on his legs as yet, wagged his
tail for thanks, and trotted to the door.
Mr. Traill had no trouble at all in keeping the little dog in sight to
the kirkyard gate, for in the dusk his coat shone silvery white. Indeed,
by a backward look now and then, Bobby seemed to invite the man to
follow, and waited at the gate, with some impatience, for him to
come up. Help was needed there. By rising and tugging at Mr. Traill's
clothing and then jumping on the wicket Bobby plainly begged to have it
opened. He made no noise, neither barking nor whimpering, and that was
very strange for a dog of the terrier breed; but each instant of delay
he became more insistent, and even frantic, to have the gate unlatched.
Mr. Traill refused to believe what Bobby's behavior indicated, and
reproved him in the broad Scotch to which the country dog was used.
“Nae, Bobby; be a gude dog. Gang doon to the Coogate noo, an' find Auld
Jock.”
Uttering no cry at all, Bobby gave the man such a woebegone look and
dropped to the pavement, with his long muzzle as far under the wicket
as he could thrust it, that the truth shot home to Mr. Traill's
understanding. He opened the gate. Bobby slipped through and stood just
inside a moment, and looking back as if he expected his human friend
to follow. Then, very suddenly, as the door of the lodge opened and the
caretaker came out, Bobby disappeared in the shadow of the church.
A big-boned, slow-moving man of the best country house-gardener type,
serviceably dressed in corduroy, wool bonnet, and ribbed stockings,
James Brown collided with the small and wiry landlord, to his own very
great embarrassment.
“Eh, Maister Traill, ye gied me a turn. It's no' canny to be proolin'
aboot the kirkyaird i' the gloamin'.”
“Whaur did the bit dog go, man?” demanded the peremptory landlord.
“Dog? There's no' ony dog i' the kirkyaird. It isna permeetted. Gin it's
a pussy ye're needin', noo--”
But Mr. Traill brushed this irrelevant pleasantry aside.
“Ay, there's a dog. I let him in my ainsel'.”
The caretaker exploded with wrath: “Syne I'll hae the law on ye. Can ye
no' read, man?”
“Tut, tut, Jeemes Brown. Don't stand there arguing. It's a gude and
necessary regulation, but it's no' the law o' the land. I turned the dog
in to settle a matter with my ain conscience, and John Knox would have
done the same thing in the bonny face o' Queen Mary. What it is, is nae
beesiness of yours. The dog was a sma' young terrier of the Highland
breed, but with a drop to his ears and a crinkle in his frosty coat--no'
just an ordinar' dog. I know him weel. He came to my place to be fed,
near dead of hunger, then led me here. If his master lies in this
kirkyard, I'll tak' the bit dog awa' with me.”
Mr. Traill's astonishing fluency always carried all walls of resistance
before it with men of slower wit and speech. Only a superior man could
brush time-honored rules aside so curtly and stand on his human rights
so surely. James Brown pulled his bonnet off deferentially, scratched
his shock head and shifted his pipe. Finally he admitted:
“Weel, there was a bit tyke i' the kirkyaird twa days syne. I put 'im
oot, an' haena seen 'im aboot ony main” He offered, however, to show the
new-made mound on which he had found the dog. Leading the way past the
church, he went on down the terraced slope, prolonging the walk with
conversation, for the guardianship of an old churchyard offers very
little such lively company as John Traill's.
“I mind, noo, it was some puir body frae the Coogate, wi' no' ony
mourners but the sma' terrier aneath the coffin. I let 'im pass, no'
to mak' a disturbance at a buryin'. The deal box was fetched up by the
police, an' carried by sic a crew o' gaol-birds as wad mak' ye turn ower
in yer ain God's hole. But he paid for his buryin' wi' his ain siller,
an' noo lies as canny as the nobeelity. Nae boot here's the place,
Maister Traill; an' ye can see for yer ainsel' there's no' any dog.”
“Ay, that would be Auld Jock and Bobby would no' be leaving him,”
insisted the landlord, stubbornly. He stood looking down at the rough
mound of frozen clods heaped in a little space of trampled snow.
“Jeemes Brown,” Mr. Trail said, at last, “the man wha lies here was a
decent, pious auld country body, and I drove him to his meeserable death
in the Cowgate.”
“Man, ye dinna ken what ye're sayin'!” was the shocked response.
“Do I no'? I'm canny, by the ordinar', but my fule tongue will get me
into trouble with the magistrates one of these days. It aye wags at both
ends, and is no' tied in the middle.”
Then, stanch Calvinist that he was, and never dreaming that he was
indulging in the sinful pleasure of confession, Mr. Traill poured out
the story of Auld Jock's plight and of his own shortcomings. It was a
bitter, upbraiding thing that he, an uncommonly capable man, had meant
so well by a humble old body, and done so ill. And he had failed again
when he tried to undo the mischief. The very next morning he had gone
down into the perilous Cowgate, and inquired in every place where it
might be possible for such a timid old shepherd to be known. But there!
As well look for a burr thistle in a bin of oats, as look for a human
atom in the Cowgate and the wynds “juist aff.”
“Weel, noo, ye couldna hae dune aething wi' the auld body, ava, gin he
wouldna gang to the infairmary.” The caretaker was trying to console the
self-accusing man.
“Could I no'? Ye dinna ken me as weel as ye micht.” The disgusted
landlord tumbled into broad Scotch. “Gie me to do it ance mair, an' I'd
chairge Auld Jock wi' thievin' ma siller, wi' a wink o' the ee at the
police to mak' them ken I was leein'; an' syne they'd hae hustled 'im
aff, willy-nilly, to a snug bed.”
The energetic little man looked so entirely capable of any daring deed
that he fired the caretaker into enthusiastic search for Bobby. It was
not entirely dark, for the sky was studded with stars, snow lay in broad
patches on the slope, and all about the lower end of the kirkyard supper
candles burned at every rear window of the tall tenements.
The two men searched among the near-by slabs and table-tombs and
scattered thorn bushes. They circled the monument to all the martyrs who
had died heroically, in the Grassmarket and elsewhere, for their faith.
They hunted in the deep shadows of the buttresses along the side of the
auld kirk and among the pillars of the octagonal portico to the new. At
the rear of the long, low building, that was clumsily partitioned across
for two pulpits, stood the ornate tomb of “Bluidy” McKenzie. But Bobby
had not committed himself to the mercy of the hanging judge, nor yet
to the care of the doughty minister, who, from the pulpit of Greyfriars
auld kirk, had flung the blood and tear stained Covenant in the teeth of
persecution.
The search was continued past the modest Scott family burial plot and
on to the west wall. There was a broad outlook over Heriot's Hospital
grounds, a smooth and shining expanse of unsullied snow about the early
Elizabethan pile of buildings. Returning, they skirted the lowest wall
below the tenements, for in the circling line of courtyarded vaults,
where the “nobeelity” of Scotland lay haughtily apart under timestained
marbles, were many shadowy nooks in which so small a dog could stow
himself away. Skulking cats were flushed there, and sent flying over
aristocratic bones, but there was no trace of Bobby.
The second tier of windows of the tenements was level with the kirkyard
wall, and several times Mr. Traill called up to a lighted casement where
a family sat at a scant supper.
“Have you seen a bit dog, man?”
There was much cordial interest in his quest, windows opening and faces
staring into the dusk; but not until near the top of the Row was a clue
gained. Then, at the query, an unkempt, illclad lassie slipped from her
stool and leaned out over the pediment of a tomb. She had seen a “wee,
wee doggie jinkin' amang the stanes.” It was on the Sabbath evening,
when the well-dressed folk had gone home from the afternoon services.
She was eating her porridge at the window, “by her lane,” when he
“keeked up at her so knowing, and begged so bonny,” that she balanced
her bit bowl on a lath, and pushed it over on the kirkyard wall. As she
finished the story the big, blue eyes of the little maid, who doubtless
had herself known what it was to be hungry, filled with tears.
“The wee tyke couldna loup up to it, an' a deil o' a pussy got it a'. He
was so bonny, like a leddy's pet, an' syne he fell ower on the snaw an'
creepit awa'. He didna cry oot, but he was a' but deid wi' hunger.”
At the memory of it soft-hearted Ailie Lindsey sobbed on her mother's
shoulder.
The tale was retold from one excited window to another, all the way
around and all the way up to the gables, so quickly could some incident
of human interest make a social gathering in the populous tenements.
Most of all, the children seized upon the touching story. Eager and
pinched little faces peered wistfully into the melancholy kirkyard.
“Is he yer ain dog?” crippled Tammy Barr piped out, in his thin treble.
“Gin I had a bonny wee dog I'd gie 'im ma ain brose, an' cuddle 'im, an'
he couldna gang awa'.”
“Nae, laddie, he's no' my dog. His master lies buried here, and the leal
Highlander mourns for him.” With keener appreciation of its pathos, Mr.
Traill recalled that this was what Auld Jock had said: “Bobby isna ma
ain dog.” And he was conscious of wishing that Bobby was his own, with
his unpurchasable love and a loyalty to face starvation. As he mounted
the turfed terraces he thought to call back:
“If you see him again, lassie, call him 'Bobby,' and fetch him up to
Greyfriars Dining-Rooms. I have a bright siller shulling, with the
Queen's bonny face on it, to give the bairn that finds Bobby.”
There was excited comment on this. He must, indeed, be an attractive
dog to be worth a shilling. The children generously shared plans for
capturing Bobby. But presently the windows were closed, and supper was
resumed. The caretaker was irritable.
“Noo, ye'll hae them a' oot swarmin' ower the kirkyaird. There's nae
coontin' the bairns o' the neeborhood, an' nane o' them are so weel
broucht up as they micht be.”
Mr. Traill commented upon this philosophically: “A bairn is like a dog
in mony ways. Tak' a stick to one or the other and he'll misbehave. The
children here are poor and neglected, but they're no' vicious like the
awfu' imps of the Cowgate, wha'd steal from their blind grandmithers.
Get on the gude side of the bairns, man, and you'll live easier and die
happier.”
It seemed useless to search the much longer arm of the kirkyard that ran
southward behind the shops of Greyfriars Place and Forest Road. If Bobby
was in the enclosure at all he would not be far from Auld Jock's grave.
Nearest the new-made mound were two very old and dark table-tombs. The
farther one lay horizontally, on its upright “through stanes,” some
distance above the earth. The supports of the other had fallen, and the
table lay on their thickness within six inches of the ground. Mr. Traill
and the caretaker sat upon this slab, which testified to the piety and
worth of one Mistress Jean Grant, who had died “lang syne.”
Encroached upon, as it was, by unlovely life, Greyfriars kirkyard was
yet a place of solitude and peace. The building had the dignity
that only old age can give. It had lost its tower by an explosion
of gunpowder stored there in war time, and its walls and many of the
ancient tombs bore the marks of fire and shot. Within the last decade
some of the Gothic openings had been filled with beautiful memorial
windows. Despite the horrors and absurdities and mutilation of much of
the funeral sculpturing, the kirkyard had a sad distinction, such as
became its fame as Scotland's Westminster. And, there was one heavenward
outlook and heavenly view. Over the tallest decaying tenement one could
look up to the Castle of dreams on the crag, and drop the glance all the
way down the pinnacled crest of High Street, to the dark and deserted
Palace of Holyrood. After nightfall the turreted heights wore a luminous
crown, and the steep ridge up to it twinkled with myriad lights. After a
time the caretaker offered a well-considered opinion.
“The dog maun hae left the kirkyaird. Thae terriers are aye barkin'.
It'd be maist michty noo, gin he'd be so lang i' the kirkyaird, an' no'
mak' a blatterin'.”
As a man of superior knowledge Mr. Traill found pleasure in upsetting
this theory. “The Highland breed are no' like ordinar' terriers. Noisy
enough to deave one, by nature, give a bit Skye a reason and he'll lie
a' the day under a whin bush on the brae, as canny as a fox. You gave
Bobby a reason for hiding here by turning him out. And Auld Jock was a
vera releegious man. It would no' be surprising if he taught Bobby to
hold his tongue in a kirkyard.”
“Man, he did that vera thing.” James Brown brought his fist down on his
knee; for suddenly he identified Bobby as the snappy little ruffian
that had chased the cat and bitten his shins, and Auld Jock as the
scandalized shepherd who had rebuked the dog so bitterly. He related the
incident with gusto.
“The auld man cried oot on the misbehavin' tyke to haud 'is gab. Syne,
ye ne'er saw the bit dog's like for a bairn that'd haen a lickin'. He'd
'a' gaen into a pit, gin there'd been ane, an' pu'd it in ahind 'im.
I turned 'em baith oot, an' told 'em no' to come back. Eh, man, it's
fearsome hoo ilka body comes to a kirkyaird, toes afore 'im, in a long
box.”
Mr. Brown was sobered by this grim thought and then, in his turn, he
confessed a slip to this tolerant man of the world. “The wee deil o' a
sperity dog nipped me so I let oot an aith.”
“Ay, that's Bobby. He would no' be afraid of onything with hide or hair
on it. Man, the Skye terriers go into dens of foxes and wildcats, and
worry bulls till they tak' to their heels. And Bobby's sagacious by the
ordinar'.” He thought intently for a moment, and then spoke naturally,
and much as Auld Jock himself might have spoken to the dog.
“Whaur are ye, Bobby? Come awa' oot, laddie!”
Instantly the little dog stood before him like some conjured ghost. He
had slipped from under the slab on which they were sitting. It lay
so near the ground, and in such a mat of dead grass, that it had
not occurred to them to look for him there. He came up to Mr. Traill
confidently, submitted to having his head patted, and looked pleadingly
at the caretaker. Then, thinking he had permission to do so, he lay down
on the mound. James Brown dropped his pipe.
“It's maist michty!” he said.
Mr. Traill got to his feet briskly. “I'll just tak' the dog with me,
Mr. Brown. On marketday I'll find the farmer that owns him and send
him hame. As you say, a kirkyard's nae place for a dog to be living
neglected. Come awa', Bobby.”
Bobby looked up, but, as he made no motion to obey, Mr. Traill stooped
and lifted him.
From sheer surprise at this unexpected move the little dog lay still a
moment on the man's arm. Then, with a lithe twist of his muscular body
and a spring, he was on the ground, trembling, reproachful for the
breach of faith, but braced for resistance.
“Eh, you're no' going?” Mr. Traill put his hands in his pockets, looked
down at Bobby admiringly, and sighed. “There's a dog after my ain heart,
and he'll have naething to do with me. He has a mind of his ain. I'll
just have to be leaving him here the two days, Mr. Brown.”
“Ye wullna leave 'im! Ye'll tak' 'im wi' ye, or I'll hae to put 'im oot.
Man, I couldna haud the place gin I brak the rules.”
“You--will--no'--put--the--wee--dog--out!” Mr. Traill shook a playful,
emphatic finger under the big man's nose.
“Why wull I no'?”
“Because, man, you have a vera soft heart, and you canna deny it.” It
was with a genial, confident smile that Mr. Traill made this terrible
accusation.
“Ma heart's no' so saft as to permit a bit dog to scandalize the deid.”
“He's been here two days, you no' knowing it, and he has scandalized
neither the dead nor the living. He's as leal as ony Covenanter here,
and better conducted than mony a laird. He's no the quarrelsome kind,
but, man, for a principle he'd fight like auld Clootie.” Here the
landlord's heat gave way to pure enjoyment of the situation. “Eh, I'd
like to see you put him out. It would be another Flodden Field.”
The angry caretaker shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Ye can see it, gin ye stand by, in juist one meenit. Fecht as he may,
it wull soon be ower.”
Mr. Traill laughed easily, and ventured the opinion that Mr. Brown's
bark was worse than his bite. As he went through the gateway he could
not resist calling back a challenge: “I daur you to do it.”
Mr. Brown locked the gate, went sulkily into the lodge, lighted his
cutty pipe, and smoked it furiously. He read a Psalm with deliberation,
poked up an already bright fire, and glowered at his placid gude wife.
It was not to be borne--to be defied by a ten-inch-high terrier, and
dared, by a man a third under his own weight, to do his duty. After an
hour or so he worked himself up to the point of going out and slamming
the door.
At eight o'clock Mr. Traill found Bobby on the pavement outside the
locked gate. He was not sorry that the fortunes of unequal battle
had thrown the faithful little dog on his hospitality. Bobby begged
piteously to be put inside, but he seemed to understand at last that
the gate was too high for Mr. Traill to drop him over. He followed
the landlord up to the restaurant willingly. He may have thought this
champion had another solution of the difficulty, for when he saw the man
settle comfortably in a chair he refused to lie on the hearth. He ran to
the door and back, and begged and whined to be let out. For a long time
he stood dejectedly. He was not sullen, for he ate a light supper and
thanked his host with much polite wagging, and he even allowed himself
to be petted. Suddenly he thought of something, trotted briskly off to a
corner and crouched there.
Mr. Traill watched the attractive little creature with interest and
growing affection. Very likely he indulged in a day-dream that, perhaps,
the tenant of Cauldbrae farm could be induced to part with Bobby for
a consideration, and that he himself could win the dog to transfer his
love from a cold grave to a warm hearth.
With a spring the rat was captured. A jerk of the long head and there
was proof of Bobby's prowess to lay at his good friend's feet. Made much
of, and in a position to ask fresh favors, the little dog was off to the
door with cheerful, staccato barks. His reasoning was as plain as print:
“I hae done ye a service, noo tak' me back to the kirkyaird.”
Mr. Traill talked to him as he might have reasoned with a bright bairn.
Bobby listened patiently, but remained of the same mind. At last
he moved away, disappointed in this human person, discouraged, but
undefeated in his purpose. He lay down by the door. Mr. Traill watched
him, for if any chance late comer opened the door the masterless little
dog would be out into the perils of the street. Bobby knew what doors
were for and, very likely, expected some such release. He waited a long
time patiently. Then he began to run back and forth. He put his paws
upon Mr. Traill and whimpered and cried. Finally he howled.
It was a dreadful, dismal, heartbroken howl that echoed back from the
walls. He howled continuously, until the landlord, quite distracted, and
concerned about the peace of his neighbors, thrust Bobby into the dark
scullery at the rear, and bade him stop his noise. For fully ten minutes
the dog was quiet. He was probably engaged in exploring his new quarters
to find an outlet. Then he began to howl again. It was truly astonishing
that so small a dog could make so large a noise.
A battle was on between the endurance of the man and the persistence of
the terrier. Mr. Traill was speculating on which was likely to be victor
in the contest, when the front door was opened and the proprietor of the
Book Hunter's Stall put in a bare, bald head and the abstracted face of
the book-worm that is mildly amused.
“Have you tak'n to a dog at your time o' life, Mr. Traill?”
“Ay, man, and it would be all right if the bit dog would just tak' to
me.”
This pleasantry annoyed a good man who had small sense of humor, and he
remarked testily “The barkin' disturbs my customers so they canna read.”
The place was a resort for student laddies who had to be saving of
candles.
“That's no' right,” the landlord admitted, sympathetically. “'Reading
mak'th a full man.' Eh, what a deeference to the warld if Robbie Burns
had aye preferred a book to a bottle.” The bookseller refused to be
beguiled from his just cause of complaint into the flowery meads of
literary reminiscences and speculations.
“You'll stop that dog's cleaving noise, Mr. Traill, or I'll appeal to
the Burgh police.”
The landlord returned a bland and child-like smile. “You'd be weel
within your legal rights to do it, neebor.”
The door was shut with such a business-like click that the situation
suddenly became serious. Bobby's vocal powers, however, gave no signs of
diminishing. Mr. Traill quieted the dog for a few moments by letting him
into the outer room, but the swiftness and energy with which he renewed
his attacks on the door and on the man's will showed plainly that the
truce was only temporary. He did not know what he meant to do except
that he certainly had no intention of abandoning the little dog. To gain
time he put on his hat and coat, picked Bobby up, and opened the door.
The thought occurred to him to try the gate at the upper end of the
kirkyard or, that failing, to get into Heriot's Hospital grounds and put
Bobby over the wall. As he opened the door, however, he heard Geordie
Ross's whistle around the bend in Forest Road.
“Hey, laddie!” he called. “Come awa' in a meenit.” When the sturdy boy
was inside and the door safely shut, he began in his most guileless and
persuasive tone: “Would you like to earn a shulling, Geordie?”
“Ay, I would. Gie it to me i' pennies an' ha'pennies, Maister Traill. It
seems mair, an' mak's a braw jinglin' in a pocket.”
The price was paid and the tale told. The quick championship of the
boy was engaged for the gallant dog, and Geordie's eyes sparkled at the
prospect of dark adventure. Bobby was on the floor listening, ears and
eyes, brambly muzzle and feathered tail alert. He listened with his
whole, small, excited body, and hung on the answer to the momentous
question.
“Is there no' a way to smuggle the bit dog into the kirkyard?”
It appeared that nothing was easier, “aince ye ken hoo.” Did Mr. Traill
know of the internal highway through the old Cunzie Neuk at the bottom
of the Row? One went up the stairs on the front to the low, timbered
gallery, then through a passage as black as “Bluidy” McKenzie's heart.
At the end of that, one came to a peep-hole of a window, set out on
wooden brackets, that hung right over the kirkyard wall. From that
window Bobby could be dropped on a certain noble vault, from which he
could jump to the ground.
“Twa meenits' wark, stout hearts, sleekit footstaps, an' the fearsome
deed is done,” declared twelve-year-old Geordie, whose sense of the
dramatic matched his daring.
But when the deed was done, and the two stood innocently on the brightly
lighted approach to the bridge, Mr. Traill had his misgivings. A
well-respected business man and church-member, he felt uneasy to be at
the mercy of a laddie who might be boastful.
“Geordie, if you tell onybody about this I'll have to give you a
licking.”
“I wullna tell,” Geordie reassured him. “It's no' so respectable, an'
syne ma mither'd gie me anither lickin', an' they'd gie me twa more
awfu' aces, an' black marks for a month, at Heriot's.”