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Page 48
"Put it to the bit Skye noo. If he tak's the Queen's shullin' he
belongs to the army." The sergeant flipped a coin before Bobby,
who was wagging his tail and sniffing at the military boots with
his ever lively interest in soldiers.
He looked up at the tossed coin indifferently, and when it fell
to the floor he let it lie. "Siller" has no meaning to a dog.
His love can be purchased with nothing less than his chosen
master's heart. The soldier sighed at Bobby's indifference. He
introduced himself as Sergeant Scott, of the Royal Engineers,
detailed from headquarters to direct the work in the
Castle crafts shops. Engineers rank high in pay and in
consideration, and it was no ordinary Jack of all trades who had
expert knowledge of so many skilled handicrafts. Mr. Traill's
respect and liking for the man increased with the passing
moments.
As the sergeant departed he warned Mr. Traill, laughingly, that
he meant to kidnap Bobby the very first chance he got. The Castle
pet had died, and Bobby was altogether too good a dog to be
wasted on a moldy auld kirkyard and thrown on a dust-cart when he
came to die.
Mr. Traill resented the imputation. "He'll no' be thrown on a
dust-cart!"
The door was shut on the mocking retort "Hoo do ye ken he
wullna?"
And there was food for gloomy reflection. The landlord could not
know, in truth, what Bobby's ultimate fate might be. But little
over nine years of age, he should live only five or six years
longer at most. Of his friends, Mr. Brown was ill and aging, and
might have to give place to a younger man. He himself was in his
prime, but he could not be certain of living longer than this
hardy little dog. For the first time he realized the truth of Dr.
Lee's saying that everybody's dog was nobody's dog. The tenement
children held Bobby in a sort of community affection. He was the
special pet of the Heriot laddies, but a class was sent into the
world every year and was scattered far. Not one of all the
hundreds of bairns who had known and loved this little dog could
give him any real care or protection.
For the rest, Bobby had remained almost unknown. Many of the
congregations of old and new Greyfriars had never seen or heard
of him. When strangers were about he seemed to prefer lying in
his retreat under the fallen tomb. His Sunday-afternoon naps he
usually took in the lodge kitchen. And so, it might very well
happen that his old age would be friendless, that he would come
to some forlorn end, and be carried away on the dustman's cart.
It might, indeed, be better for him to end his days in love and
honor in the Castle. But to this solution of the problem Mr.
Traill himself was not reconciled.
Sensing some shifting of the winds in the man's soul, Bobby
trotted over to lick his hand. Then he sat up on the hearth and
lolled his tongue, reminding the good landlord that he had one
cheerful friend to bear him company on the blaw-weary day. It was
thus they sat, companionably, when a Burgh policeman who was well
known to Mr. Traill came in to dry himself by the fire. Gloomy
thoughts were dispelled at once by the instinct of hospitality.
"You're fair wet, man. Pull a chair to the hearth. And you have a
bit smut on your nose, Davie."
"It's frae the railway engine. Edinburgh was a reekie toon eneugh
afore the engines cam' in an' belched smuts in ilka body's
faces." The policeman was disgusted and discouraged by three days
of wet clothing, and he would have to go out into the rain again
before he got dry. Nothing occurred to him to talk about but
grievances.
"Did ye ken the Laird Provost, Maister Chambers, is intendin' to
knock a lang hole aboon the tap o' the Coogate wynds? It wull
mak' a braid street ye can leuk doon frae yer doorway here. The
gude auld days gangin' doon in a muckle dust!"
"Ay, the sun will peep into foul places it hasn't seen sin' Queen
Mary's day. And, Davie, it would be more according to the gude
auld customs you're so fond of to call Mr. William Chambers
'Glenormiston' for his bit country place."
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