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.
