His love can be purchased with nothing less than his chosen master's heart.The soldier sighed at Bobby's indifference.He introduced himself as Sergeant Scott, of the Royal Engineers, detailed from headquarters to direct the work in the Castle crafts shops.Engineers rank high in pay and in consideration, and it was no ordinary Jack of all trades who had expert knowledge of so many skilled handicrafts.Mr.Traill's respect and liking for the man increased with the passing moments.
As the sergeant departed he warned Mr.Traill, laughingly, that he meant to kidnap Bobby the very first chance he got.The Castle pet had died, and Bobby was altogether too good a dog to be wasted on a moldy auld kirkyard and thrown on a dust-cart when he came to die.
Mr.Traill resented the imputation."He'll no' be thrown on a dust-cart!"The door was shut on the mocking retort "Hoo do ye ken he wullna?"And there was food for gloomy reflection.The landlord could not know, in truth, what Bobby's ultimate fate might be.But little over nine years of age, he should live only five or six years longer at most.Of his friends, Mr.Brown was ill and aging, and might have to give place to a younger man.He himself was in his prime, but he could not be certain of living longer than this hardy little dog.For the first time he realized the truth of Dr.
Lee's saying that everybody's dog was nobody's dog.The tenement children held Bobby in a sort of community affection.He was the special pet of the Heriot laddies, but a class was sent into the world every year and was scattered far.Not one of all the hundreds of bairns who had known and loved this little dog could give him any real care or protection.
For the rest, Bobby had remained almost unknown.Many of the congregations of old and new Greyfriars had never seen or heard of him.When strangers were about he seemed to prefer lying in his retreat under the fallen tomb.His Sunday-afternoon naps he usually took in the lodge kitchen.And so, it might very well happen that his old age would be friendless, that he would come to some forlorn end, and be carried away on the dustman's cart.
It might, indeed, be better for him to end his days in love and honor in the Castle.But to this solution of the problem Mr.
Traill himself was not reconciled.
Sensing some shifting of the winds in the man's soul, Bobby trotted over to lick his hand.Then he sat up on the hearth and lolled his tongue, reminding the good landlord that he had one cheerful friend to bear him company on the blaw-weary day.It was thus they sat, companionably, when a Burgh policeman who was well known to Mr.Traill came in to dry himself by the fire.Gloomy thoughts were dispelled at once by the instinct of hospitality.
"You're fair wet, man.Pull a chair to the hearth.And you have a bit smut on your nose, Davie.""It's frae the railway engine.Edinburgh was a reekie toon eneugh afore the engines cam' in an' belched smuts in ilka body's faces." The policeman was disgusted and discouraged by three days of wet clothing, and he would have to go out into the rain again before he got dry.Nothing occurred to him to talk about but grievances.
"Did ye ken the Laird Provost, Maister Chambers, is intendin' to knock a lang hole aboon the tap o' the Coogate wynds? It wull mak' a braid street ye can leuk doon frae yer doorway here.The gude auld days gangin' doon in a muckle dust!""Ay, the sun will peep into foul places it hasn't seen sin' Queen Mary's day.And, Davie, it would be more according to the gude auld customs you're so fond of to call Mr.William Chambers 'Glenormiston' for his bit country place.""He's no' a laird.""Nae; but he'll be a laird the next time the Queen shows her bonny face north o' the Tweed.Tak' 'a cup o' kindness' with me, man.Hot tay will tak' the cauld out of vour disposeetion." Mr.
Traill pulled a bell-cord and Ailie, unused as yet to bells, put her startled little face in at the door to the scullery.At sight of the policeman she looked more than ever like a scared rabbit, and her hands shook when she set the tray down before him.Atenement child grew up in an atmosphere of hostility to uniformed authority, which seldom appeared except to interfere with what were considered personal affairs.
The tea mollified the dour man, but there was one more rumbling.
"I'm no' denyin' the Provost's gude-hearted.Ance he got up a hame for gaen-aboot dogs, an' he had naethin' to mak' by that.
But he canna keep 'is spoon oot o' ilka body's porridge.He's fair daft to tear doon the wa's that cut St.Giles up into fower, snod, white kirks, an' mak' it the ane muckle kirk it was in auld Papist days.There are folk that say, gin he doesna leuk oot, anither kale wifie wull be throwin' a bit stool at 'is meddlin'
heid."
