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Page 27
"Twa meenits' wark, stout hearts, sleekit footstaps, an' the
fearsome deed is done," declared twelve-year-old Geordie, whose
sense of the dramatic matched his daring.
But when the deed was done, and the two stood innocently on the
brightly lighted approach to the bridge, Mr. Traill had his
misgivings. A well-respected business man and church-member, he
felt uneasy to be at the mercy of a laddie who might be boastful.
"Geordie, if you tell onybody about this I'll have to give you a
licking."
"I wullna tell," Geordie reassured him. "It's no' so respectable,
an' syne ma mither'd gie me anither lickin', an' they'd gie me
twa more awfu' aces, an' black marks for a month, at Heriot's."
V.
Word had been left at all the inns and carting offices about both
markets for the tenant of Cauldbrae farm to call at Mr. Traill's
place for Bobby. The man appeared Wednesday afternoon, driving a
big Clydesdale horse to a stout farm cart. The low-ceiled
dining-room suddenly shrank about the big-boned, long legged hill
man. The fact embarrassed him, as did also a voice cultivated out
of all proportion to town houses, by shouting to dogs and
shepherds on windy shoulders of the Pentlands.
"Hae ye got the dog wi' ye?"
Mr. Train pointed to Bobby, deep in a blissful, after dinner nap
under the settle.
The farmer breathed a sigh of relief, sat at a table, and ate a
frugal meal of bread and cheese. As roughly dressed as Auld Jock,
in a metal-buttoned greatcoat of hodden gray, a woolen bonnet,
and the shepherd's twofold plaid, he was a different species of
human being altogether. A long, lean, sinewy man of early middle
age, he had a smooth-shaven, bony jaw, far-seeing gray eyes under
furzy brows, and a shock of auburn hair. When he spoke, it was to
give bits out of his own experience.
"Thae terriers are usefu' eneugh on an ordinar' fairm an' i' the
toon to keep awa' the vermin, but I wadna gie a twa-penny-bit for
ane o' them on a sheep-fairm. There's a wee lassie at Cauldbrae
wha wants Bobby for a pet. It wasna richt for Auld Jock to win
'im awa' frae the bairn."
Mr. Traill's hand was lifted in rebuke. "Speak nae ill, man; Auld
Jock's dead."
The farmer's ruddy face blanched and he dropped his knife. "He's
no' buried so sane?"
"Ay, he's buried four days since in Greyfriars kirkyard, and
Bobby has slept every night on the auld man's grave."
"I'll juist tak' a leuk at the grave, moil, gin ye'll hae an ee
on the dog."
Mr. Traill cautioned him not to let the caretaker know that Bobby
had continued to sleep in the kirkyard, after having been put out
twice. The farmer was back in ten minutes, with a canny face that
defied reading. He lighted his short Dublin pipe and smoked it
out before he spoke again.
"It's ower grand for a puir auld shepherd body to be buried i'
Greyfriars."
"No' so grand as heaven, I'm thinking." Mr. Traill's response was
dry.
"Ay, an' we're a' coontin' on gangin' there; but it's a prood
thing to hae yer banes put awa' in Greyfriars, ance ye're through
wi' 'em!"
"Nae doubt the gude auld man would rather be alive on the
Pentland braes than dead in Greyfriars."
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