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Page 11
But what was one to do but "lee," right heartily, for the good of
this very sick, very poor, homeless old man on a night of
pitiless storm? That he had "lee'd" to no purpose and got a
"saft" name for it was a blow to his pride.
Hearing the clatter of fork and spoon, Bobby trotted from behind
the bar and saved the day of discomfiture. Time for dinner,
indeed! Up he came on his hind legs and politely begged his
master for food. It was the prettiest thing he could do, and the
landlord delighted in him.
"Gie 'im a penny plate o' the gude broo," said Auld Jock, and he
took the copper coin from his pocket to pay for it. He forgot his
own meal in watching the hungry little creature eat. Warmed
and softened by Mr. Traill's kindness, and by the heartening
food, Auld Jock betrayed a thought that had rankled in the depths
of his mind all day.
"Bobby isna ma ain dog." His voice was dull and unhappy.
Ah, here was misery deeper than any physical ill! The penny was
his, a senseless thing; but, poor, old, sick, hameless and
kinless, the little dog that loved and followed him "wasna his
ain." To hide the huskiness in his own voice Mr. Traill relapsed
into broad, burry Scotch.
"Dinna fash yersel', man. The wee beastie is maist michty fond o'
ye, an' ilka dog aye chooses 'is ain maister."
Auld Jock shook his head and gave a brief account of Bobby's
perversity. On the very next market-day the little dog must be
restored to the tenant of Cauldbrae farm and, if necessary, tied
in the cart. It was unlikely, young as he was, that he would try
to find his way back, all the way from near the top of the
Pentlands. In a day or two he would forget Auld Jock.
"I canna say it wullna be sair partin'--" And then, seeing the
sympathy in the landlord's eye and fearing a disgraceful
breakdown, Auld Jock checked his self betrayal. During the talk
Bobby stood listening. At the abrupt ending, he put his shagged
paws up on Auld Jock's knee, wistfully inquiring about this
emotional matter. Then he dropped soberly, and slunk away under
his master's chair.
"Ay, he kens we're talkin' aboot 'im."
"He's a knowing bit dog. Have you attended to his sairous
education, man?"
"Nae, he's ower young."
"Young is aye the time to teach a dog or a bairn that life is no'
all play. Man, you should put a sma' terrier at the vermin an'
mak' him usefu'."
"It's eneugh, gin he's gude company for the wee lassie wha's fair
fond o' 'im," Auld Jock answered, briefly. This was a strange
sentiment from the work-broken old man who, for himself, would
have held ornamental idleness sinful. He finished his supper in
brooding silence. At last he broke out in a peevish irritation
that only made his grief at parting with Bobby more apparent to
an understanding man like Mr. Traill.
"I dinna ken what to do wi' 'im i' an Edinburgh lodgin' the
nicht. The auld wifie I lodge wi' is dour by the ordinar', an'
wadna bide 'is blatterin'. I couldna get 'im past 'er auld een,
an' thae terriers are aye barkin' aboot naethin' ava."
Mr. Traill's eyes sparkled at recollection of an apt literary
story to which Dr. John Brown had given currency. Like many
Edinburgh shopkeepers, Mr. Traill was a man of superior education
and an omnivorous reader. And he had many customers from the
near-by University to give him a fund of stories of Scotch
writers and other worthies.
"You have a double plaid, man?"
"Ay. Ilka shepherd's got a twa-fold plaidie." It seemed a foolish
question to Auld Jock, but Mr. Traill went on blithely.
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