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Page 39
"Tammy," Ailie said, when her shyness had worn off, "it's like
the grand tales ye mak' up i' yer heid."
"Preserve me! Does the wee mannie mak' up stories?"
"It's juist fulish things, aboot haein' mair to eat, an' a sonsie
doggie to play wi', an' twa gude legs to tak' me aboot. I think
'em oot at nicht when I canna sleep."
"Eh, laddie, do ye noo?" Mr. Traill suddenly had a terrible
"cauld in 'is heid," that made his eyes water. "Hoo auld are ye?"
"Five, gangin' on sax."
"Losh! I thoucht ye war fifty, gangin' on saxty." Laughter saved
the day from overmoist emotions. And presently Mr. Traill was
able to say in a business-like tone:
"We'll hae to tak' ye to the infirmary. An' if they canna mak'
yer legs ower ye'll get a pair o' braw crutches that are the
niest thing to gude legs. An' syne we'll see if there's no' a
place in Heriot's for a sma' laddie that mak's up bonny tales o'
his ain in the murky auld Cunzie Neuk."
Now the gay little feast was eaten, and early dark was coming on.
If Mr. Traill had entertained the hope that Bobby had recovered
from his grief and might remain with him, he was disappointed.
The little dog began to be restless. He ran to the door and back;
he begged, and he scratched on the panel. And then he yelped! As
soon as the door was opened he shot out of it, tumbled down the
stairway and waited at the foot impatiently for the lower door to
be unlatched. Ailie's thin, swift legs were left behind when
Bobby dashed to the kirkyard.
Tammy followed at a surprising pace on his rude crutches, and Mr.
Traill brought up the rear. If the children could not smuggle the
frantic little dog inside, the landlord meant to put him over the
wicket and, if necessary, to have it out with the caretaker, and
then to go before the kirk minister and officers with his plea.
He was still concealed by the buildings, from the alcoved gate,
when he heard Mr. Brown's gruff voice taking the frightened
bairns to task.
"Gie me the dog; an' dinna ye tak' him oot ony mair wi'oot
spierin' me."
The children fled. Peeping around the angle of the Book Hunter's
Stall, Mr. Traill saw the caretaker lift Bobby over the wicket to
his arms, and start with him toward the lodge. He was perishing
with curiosity about this astonishing change of front on the part
of Mr. Brown, but it was a delicate situation in which it seemed
best not to meddle. He went slowly back to the restaurant,
begrudging Bobby to the luckier caretaker.
His envy was premature. Mr. Brown set Bobby inside the lodge
kitchen and announced briefly to his wife: "The bit dog wull
sleep i' the hoose the nicht." And he went about some business at
the upper end of the kirkyard. When he came in an hour later
Bobby was gone.
"I couldna keep 'im in, Jamie. He didna blatter, but he greeted
so sair to be let oot, an syne he scratched a' the paint aff the
door."
Mr. Brown glowered at her in exasperation. "Woman, they'll hae me
up afore kirk sessions for brakin' the rules, an' syne they'll
turn us a' oot i' the cauld warld togither."
He slammed the door and stormed angrily around the kirk. It was
still light enough to see the little creature on the snowy mound
and, indeed, Bobby got up and wagged his tail in friendly
greeting. At that all the bluster went out of the man, and he
began to argue the matter with the dog.
"Come awa', Bobby. Ye canna be leevin' i' the kirkyaird."
Bobby was of a different opinion. He turned around and around,
thoughtfully, several times, then sat up on the grave. Entirely
willing to spend a social hour with his new friend, he fixed his
eyes hospitably upon him. Mr. Brown dropped to the slab, lighted
his pipe, and smoked for a time, to compose his agitated mind. By
and by he got up briskly and stooped to lift the little dog. At
that Bobby dug his claws in the clods and resisted with all his
muscular body and determined mind. He clung to the grave so
desperately, and looked up so piteously, that the caretaker
surrendered. And there was snod Mistress Jeanie, forgetting her
spotless gown and kneeling in the snow.
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