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Page 47
A sensitive little dog learns to read the human barometer with a
degree of accuracy rarely attained by fellowmen and, in times of
low pressure, wisely effaces himself. His rough thatch streaming,
Bobby trotted in blithely for his dinner, ate it under the
settle, shook himself dry, and dozed half the afternoon.
To the casual observer the wee terrier was no older than when his
master died. As swift of foot and as sound of wind as he had
ever been, he could tear across country at the heels of a new
generation of Heriot laddies and be as fresh as a daisy at
nightfall. Silvery gray all over, the whitening hairs on his face
and tufted feet were not visible. His hazel-brown eyes were still
as bright and soft and deep as the sunniest pools of Leith Water.
It was only when he opened his mouth for a tiny, pink cavern of a
yawn that the points of his teeth could be seen to be wearing
down; and his after-dinner nap was more prolonged than of old. At
such times Mr. Traill recalled that the longest life of a dog is
no more than a fifth of the length of days allotted to man.
On that snarling April day, when only himself and the flossy ball
of sleeping Skye were in the place, this thought added to Mr.
Traill's discontent. There had been few guests. Those who had
come in, soaked and surly, ate their dinner in silence and
discomfort and took themselves away, leaving the freshly scrubbed
floor as mucky as a moss-hag on the moor. Late in the afternoon a
sergeant, risen from the ranks and cocky about it, came in and
turned himself out of a dripping greatcoat, dapper and dry in his
red tunic, pipe-clayed belt, and winking buttons. He ordered tea
and toast and Dundee marmalade with an air of gay well-being that
was no less than a personal affront to a man in Mr. Traill's
frame of mind. Trouble brewed with the tea that Ailie Lindsey, a
tall lassie of fifteen, but shy and elfish as of old, brought in
on a tray from the scullery.
When this spick-and-span non-commissioned officer demanded Mr.
Traill's price for the little dog that took his eye, the landlord
replied curtly that Bobby was not for sale. The soldier was
insolently amused.
"That's vera surprisin'. I aye thoucht an Edinburgh shopkeeper
wad sell ilka thing he had, an' tak' the siller to bed wi' 'im to
keep 'im snug the nicht."
Mr. Traill returned, with brief sarcasm, that "his lairdship" had
been misinformed.
"Why wull ye no' sell the bit dog?" the man insisted.
The badgered landlord turned upon him and answered at length,
after the elaborate manner of a minister who lays his sermon off
in sections
"First: he's no' my dog to sell. Second: he's a dog of rare
discreemination, and is no' like to tak' you for a master. Third:
you soldiers aye have with you a special brand of shulling-a-day
impudence. And, fourth and last, my brither: I'm no' needing your
siller, and I can manage to do fair weel without your
conversation."
As this bombardment proceeded, the sergeant's jaw dropped. When
it was finished he laughed heartily and slapped his knee. "Man,
come an' brak bread wi' me or I'll hae to brak yer stiff neck."
A truce was declared over a cozy pot of tea, and the two became
at least temporary friends. It was such a day that the landlord
would have gossiped with a gaol bird; and when a soldier who has
seen years of service, much of it in strange lands, once admits a
shopkeeper to equality, he can be affable and entertaining
"by the ordinar'." Mr. Traill sketched Bobby's story broadly, and
to a sympathetic listener; and the soldier told the landlord of
the animals that had lived and died in the Castle.
Parrots and monkeys and strange dogs and cats had been brought
there by regiments returning from foreign countries and colonies.
But most of the pets had been native dogs--collies, spaniels and
terriers, and animals of mixed breeds and of no breed at all, but
just good dogs. No one knew when the custom began, but there was
an old and well-filled cemetery for the Castle pets. When a dog
died a little stone was set up, with the name of the animal and
the regiment to which it had belonged on it. Soldiers often went
there among the tiny mounds and told stories of the virtues and
taking ways of old favorites. And visitors read the names of
Flora and Guy and Dandie, of Prince Charlie and Rob Roy, of
Jeanie and Bruce and Wattie. It was a merry life for a dog in the
Castle. He was petted and spoiled by homesick men, and when he
died there were a thousand mourners at his funeral.
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