"Weel, I'll admit to you that I'm fair fulish about Bobby.Man, I've courted that sma' terrier for eight and a half years.He's as polite and friendly as the deil, but he'll have naething to do with me or with onybody.I wonder the intelligent bit doesn't bite me for the ill turn I did his master."Then there was the story of Bobby's devotion to Auld Jock's memory to be told--the days when he faced starvation rather than desert that grave, the days when he lay cramped under the fallen table-tomb, and his repeated, dramatic escapes from the Pentland farm.His never broken silence in the kirkyard was only to be explained by the unforgotten orders of his dead master.His intelligent effort to make himself useful to the caretaker had won indulgence.His ready obedience, good temper, high spirits and friendliness had made him the special pet of the tenement children and the Heriot laddies.At the very last Mr.Traill repeated the talk he had had with the non-commissioned officer from the Castle, and confessed his own fear of some forlorn end for Bobby.It was true he was nobody's dog; and he was fascinated by soldiers and military music, and so, perhaps--"I'll no' be reconciled to parting--Eh, man, that's what Auld Jock himsel' said when he was telling me that the bit dog must be returned to the sheep-farm: 'It wull be sair partin'.'" Tears stood in the unashamed landlord's eyes.
Glenormiston was pulling Bobby's silkily fringed ears thoughtfully.Through all this talk about his dead master the little dog had not stirred.For the second time that day Bobby's veil was pushed back, first by the most unfortunate laddie in the decaying tenements about Greyfriars, and now by the Lord Provost of the ancient royal burgh and capital of Scotland.And both made the same discovery.Deep-brown pools of love, young Bobby's eyes had dwelt upon Auld Jock.Pools of sad memories they were now, looking out wistfully and patiently upon a masterless world.
"Are you thinking he would be reconciled to be anywhere away from that grave? Look, man!""Lord forgive me! I aye thought the wee doggie happy enough."After a moment the two men went down the gallery stairs in silence.Bobby dropped from the bench and fell into a subdued trot at their heels.As they left the cathedral by the door that led into High Street Glenormiston remarked, with a mysterious smile:
"I'm thinking Edinburgh can do better by wee Bobby than to banish him to the Castle.But wait a bit, man.A kirk is not the place for settling a small dog's affairs."The Lord Provost led the way westward along the cathedral's front.On High Street, St.Giles had three doorways.The middle door then gave admittance to the police office; the western opened into the Little Kirk, popularly known as Haddo's Hole.It was into this bare, whitewashed chapel that Glenormiston turned to get some restoration drawings he had left on the pulpit.He was explaining them to Mr.Traill when he was interrupted by a murmur and a shuffle, as of many voices and feet, and an odd tap-tap-tapping in the vestibule.
Of all the doorways on the north and south fronts of St.Giles the one to the Little Kirk was nearest the end of George IVBridge.Confused by the vast size and imposing architecture of the old cathedral, these slum children, in search of the police office, went no farther, but ventured timidly into the open vestibule of Haddo's Hole.Any doubts they might have had about this being the right place were soon dispelled.Bobby heard them and darted out to investigate.And suddenly they were all inside, overwrought Ailie on the floor, clasping the little dog and crying hysterically.
"Bobby's no' deid! Bobby's no' deid! Oh, Maister Traill, ye wullna hae to gie 'im up to the police! Tammy's got the seven shullin's in 'is bonnet!"And there was small Tammy, crutches dropped and pouring that offering of love and mercy out at the foot of an altar in old St.
Giles.Such an astonishing pile of copper coins it was, that it looked to the landlord like the loot of some shopkeeper's change drawer.
"Eh, puir laddie, whaur did ye get it a' noo?" he asked, gravely.
Tammy was very self-possessed and proud."The bairnies aroond the kirkyaird gie'd it to pay the police no' to mak' Bobby be deid."Mr.Traill flashed a glance at Glenormiston.It was a look at once of triumph and of humility over the Herculean deed of these disinherited children.But the Lord Provost was gazing at that crowd of pale bairns, products of the Old Town's ancient slums, and feeling, in his own person, the civic shame of it.And he was thinking, thinking, that he must hasten that other project nearest his heart, of knocking holes in solid rows of foul cliffs, in the Cowgate, on High Street, and around Greyfriars.It was an incredible thing that such a flower of affection should have bloomed so sweetly in such sunless cells.And it was a new gospel, at that time, that a dog or a horse or a bird might have its mission in this world of making people kinder and happier.
