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Page 31
Presently he began to chuckle. "There's a bit notice on the gate
that nae dogs are admittet, but Bobby's sleepit on Auld Jock's
grave ane--twa--three--fower nichts, an' the gairdener doesna ken
it, ava. He's a canny beastie."
"Ay, he is. Folk wull be comin' frae miles aroond juist to leuk
at thesperity bit. Ilka body aboot kens Auld Jock. It'll be
maist michty news to tell at the kirk on the Sabbath, that he's
buried i' Greyfriars."
Through all this talk Bobby had lain quietly by the door, in the
expectation that it would be unlatched. Impatient of delay, he
began to whimper and to scratch on the panel. The lassie opened
her blue eyes at that, scrambled down, and ran to him. Instantly
Bobby was up, tugging at her short little gown and begging to be
let out. When she clasped her chubby arms around his neck and
tried to comfort him he struggled free and set up a dreadful
howling.
"Hoots, Bobby, stap yer havers!" shouted the farmer.
"Eh, lassie, he'll deave us a'. We'll juist hae to put 'im i' the
byre wi' the coos for the nicht," cried the distracted mither.
"I want Bobby i' the bed wi' me. I'll cuddle 'im an' lo'e 'im
till he staps greetin'."
"Nae, bonny wee, he wullna stap." The farmer picked the child up
on one arm, gripped the dog under the other, and the gude wife
went before with a lantern, across the dark farmyard to the
cow-barn. When the stout door was unlatched there was a smell of
warm animals, of milk, and cured hay, and the sound of full,
contented breathings that should have brought a sense of
companionship to a grieving little creature.
"Bobby wullna be lanely here wi' the coos, bairnie, an' i' the
morn ye can tak' a bit rope an' haud it in a wee hand so he canna
brak awa', an' syne, in a day or twa, he'll be forgettin' Auld
Jock. Ay, ye'll hae grand times wi' the sonsie doggie, rinnin'
an' loupin' on the braes."
This argument was so convincing and so attractive that the little
maid dried her tears, kissed Bobby on the head again, and made a
bed of heather for him in a corner. But as they were leaving the
byre fresh doubts assailed her.
"He'll gang awa' gin ye dinna tie 'im snug the nicht, faither."
"Sic a fulish bairn! Wi' fower wa's aroond 'im, an' a roof to 'is
heid, an' a floor to 'is fut, hoo could a sma' dog mak' a way
oot?"
It was a foolish notion, bred of fond anxiety, and so, reassured,
the child went happily back to the house and to rosy sleep in her
little closet bed.
Ah! here was a warm place in a cold world for Bobby. A
soft-hearted little mistress and merry playmate was here,
generous food, and human society of a kind that was very much to
a little farm dog's liking. Here was freedom--wide moors to
delight his scampering legs, adventures with rabbits, foxes,
hares and moor-fowl, and great spaces where no one's ears would
be offended by his loudest, longest barking. Besides, Auld Jock
had said, with his last breath, "Gang--awa'--hame--laddie!" It is
not to be supposed Bobby had forgotten that, since he remembered
and obeyed every other order of that beloved voice. But there,
self-interest, love of liberty, and the instinct of obedience,
even, sank into the abysses of the little creature's mind. Up to
the top rose the overmastering necessity of guarding the bit of
sacred earth that covered his master.
The byre was no sooner locked than Bobby began, in the pitch
darkness, to explore the walls. The single promise of escape that
was offered was an inch-wide crack under the door, where the
flooring stopped short and exposed a strip of earth. That would
have appalled any but a desperate little dog. The crack was so
small as to admit but one paw, at first, and the earth was packed
as hard as wood by generations of trampling cattle.
There he began to dig. He came of a breed of dogs used by farmers
and hunters to dig small, burrowing animals out of holes, a breed
whose courage and persistence know no limit. He dug patiently,
steadily, hour after hour, enlarging the hole by inches. Now and
then he had to stop to rest. When he was able to use both
forepaws he made encouraging progress; but when he had to reach
under the door, quite the length of his stretched legs, and drag
every bit of earth back into the byre, the task must have been
impossible to any little creature not urged by utter misery. But
Skye terriers have been known to labor with such fury that they
have perished of their own exertions. Bobby's nose sniffed
liberty long before he could squeeze his weasel-like body through
the tunnel. His back bruised and strained by the struggle through
a hole too small, he stood, trembling with exhaustion, in the
windy dawn.
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