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Page 20
"Many a dog gangs daft an' greets like a human body when his
maister dees. They're aye put oot, a time or twa, an' they gang
to folic that ken them, an' syne they tak' to ithers. Dinna fash
yersel' aboot 'im. He wullna greet lang."
Since Bobby would not go, there was nothing to do but leave him
there; but it was with many a backward look and disturbing doubt
that the good man turned away. The grave-digger finished his task
cheerfully, shouldered his tools, and left the kirkyard. The
early dark was coming on when the caretaker, in making his last
rounds, found the little terrier flattened out on the new-made
mound.
"Gang awa' oot!" he ordered. Bobby looked up pleadingly and
trembled, but he made no motion to obey. James Brown was not an
unfeeling man, and he was but doing his duty. From an impulse of
pity for this bonny wee bit of loyalty and grief he picked Bobby
up, carried him all the way to the gate and set him over the
wicket on the pavement.
"Gang awa' hame, noo," he said, kindly. "A kirkya'rd isna a
place for a bit dog to be leevin'."
Bobby lay where he had been dropped until the caretaker was out
of sight. Then, finding the aperture under the gate too small for
him to squeeze through, he tried, in his ancestral way, to
enlarge it by digging. He scratched and scratched at the
unyielding stone until his little claws were broken and his
toes bleeding, before he stopped and lay down with his nose under
the wicket.
Just before the closing hour a carriage stopped at the
kirkyard gate. A black-robed lady, carrying flowers, hurried
through the wicket. Bobby slipped in behind her and disappeared.
After nightfall, when the lamps were lighted on the bridge, when
Mr. Traill had come out to stand idly in his doorway, looking for
some one to talk to, and James Brown had locked the kirkyard yard
gate for the night and gone into his little stone lodge to
supper, Bobby came out of hiding and stretched himself prone
across Auld Jock's grave.
IV.
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.
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