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Page 30
The sheep-dogs charged the cart with as deafening a clamor of
welcome as if a home-coming had never happened before, and raced
the horse across the level. The kitchen door flared open, a
sudden beacon to shepherds scattered afar on these upland billows
of heath. In a moment the basket was in the house, the door
snecked, and Bobby released on the hearth.
It was a beautiful, dark old kitchen, with a homely fire of peat
that glowed up to smoke-stained rafters. Soon it was full of
shepherds, come in to a supper of brose, cheese, milk and
bannocks. Sheep-dogs sprawled and dozed on the hearth, so that
the gude wife complained of their being underfoot. But she left
them undisturbed and stepped over them, for, tired as they were,
they would have to go out again to drive the sheep into the fold.
Humiliated by being brought home a prisoner, and grieving for the
forsaken grave in Greyfriars, Bobby crept away to a corner bench,
on which Auld Jock had always sat in humble self-effacement. He
lay down under it, and the little four year-old lassie sat on
the floor close beside him, understanding, and sorry with him.
Her rough brother Wattie teased her about wanting her supper
there on one plate with Bobby.
"I wadna gang daft aboot a bit dog, Elsie."
"Leave the bairn by 'er lane," commanded the farmer. The mither
patted the child's bright head, and wiped the tears from the
bluebell eyes. And there was a little sobbing confidence poured
into a sympathetic ear.
Bobby refused to eat at first, but by and by he thought better of
it. A little dog that has his life to live and his work to do
must have fuel to drive the throbbing engine of his tiny heart.
So Bobby very sensibly ate a good supper in the lassie's company
and, grateful for that and for her sympathy, submitted to her shy
petting. But after the shepherds and dogs were gone and the
farmer had come in again from an overseeing look about the place
the little dog got up, trotted to the door, and lay down by it.
The lassie followed him. With two small, plump hands she pushed
Bobby's silver veil back, held his muzzle and looked into his
sad, brown eyes.
"Oh, mither, mither, Bobby's greetin'," she cried.
"Nae, bonny wee, a sma' dog canna greet."
"Ay, he's greetin' sair!" A sudden, sweet little sound was
dropped on Bobby's head.
"Ye shouldna kiss the bit dog, bairnie. He isna like a human
body."
"Ay, a wee kiss is gude for 'im. Faither, he greets so I canna
thole it." The child fled to comforting arms in the inglenook and
cried herself to sleep. The gude wife knitted, and the gude mon
smoked by the pleasant fire. The only sound in the room was the
ticking of the wag at the wa' clock, for burning peat makes no
noise at all, only a pungent whiff in the nostrils, the memory of
which gives a Scotch laddie abroad a fit of hamesickness. Bobby
lay very still and watchful by the door. The farmer served his
astonishing news in dramatic bits.
"Auld Jock's deid." Bobby stirred at that, and flattened out on
the floor.
"Ay, the lassie told that, an' I wad hae kenned it by the dog. He
is greetin' by the ordinar'."
"An' he's buried i' the kirkyaird o' auld Greyfriars." Ah, that
fetched her! The gude wife dropped her knitting and stared at
him.
"There's a gairdener, like at the country-hooses o' the gentry,
leevin' in a bit lodge by the gate. He has naethin' to do, ava,
but lock the gate at nicht, put the dogs oot, an' mak' the posies
bloom i' the simmer. Ay, it's a bonny place."
"It's ower grand for Auld Jock."
"Ye may weel say that. His bit grave isna so far frae the
martyrs' monument." When the grandeur of that had sunk in he went
on to other incredibilities.
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