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Page 59
"Man, auld John Knox will turn over in his bit grave in
Parliament Close if you put a 'kist o' whustles' in St. Giles."
Mr. Traill laughed.
"I admit I might have stopped short of the organ but for the
courageous example of Doctor Lee in Greyfriars. It was from him
that I had a quite extravagant account of this wee, leal
Highlander a few years ago. I have aye meant to go to see him;
but I'm a busy man and the matter passed out of mind. Mr. Traill,
I'm your sadly needed witness: I heard you from the doorway of
the court-room, and I sent up a note confirming your story and
asking, as a courtesy, that the case be turned over to me for
some exceptional disposal. Would you mind telling another man the
tale that so moved Doctor Lee? I've aye had a fondness for the
human document."
So there, above the pulpit of the High Kirk of St. Giles, the
tale was told again, so strangely did this little dog's life come
to be linked with the highest and lowest, the proudest and
humblest in the Scottish capital. Now, at mention of Auld Jock,
Bobby put his shagged paws up inquiringly on the edge of the pew,
so that Mr. Traill lifted him. He lay down flat between the two
men, with his nose on his paws, and his little tousled head under
the Lord Provost's hand.
Auld Jock lived again in that recital. Glenormiston, coming from
the country of the Ettrick shepherd, knew such lonely figures,
and the pathos of old age and waning powers that drove them in to
the poor quarters of towns. There was pictured the stormy night
and the simple old man who sought food and shelter, with the
devoted little dog that "wasna 'is ain." Sick unto death he was,
and full of ignorant prejudices and fears that needed wise
handling. And there was the well-meaning landlord's blunder,
humbly confessed, and the obscure and tragic result of it, in a
foul and swarming rookery "juist aff the Coogate."
"Man, it was Bobby that told me of his master's condition. He
begged me to help Auld Jock, and what did I do but let my fule
tongue wag about doctors. I nae more than turned my back than the
auld body was awa' to his meeserable death. It has aye eased my
conscience a bit to feed the dog."
"That's not the only reason why you have fed him." There was a
twinkle in the Lord Provost's eye, and Mr. Traill blushed.
"Weel, I'll admit to you that I'm fair fulish about Bobby. Man,
I've courted that sma' terrier for eight and a half years. He's
as polite and friendly as the deil, but he'll have naething to do
with me or with onybody. I wonder the intelligent bit doesn't
bite me for the ill turn I did his master."
Then there was the story of Bobby's devotion to Auld Jock's
memory to be told--the days when he faced starvation rather than
desert that grave, the days when he lay cramped under the fallen
table-tomb, and his repeated, dramatic escapes from the Pentland
farm. His never broken silence in the kirkyard was only to be
explained by the unforgotten orders of his dead master. His
intelligent effort to make himself useful to the caretaker had
won indulgence. His ready obedience, good temper, high spirits
and friendliness had made him the special pet of the tenement
children and the Heriot laddies. At the very last Mr. Traill
repeated the talk he had had with the non-commissioned officer
from the Castle, and confessed his own fear of some forlorn end
for Bobby. It was true he was nobody's dog; and he was fascinated
by soldiers and military music, and so, perhaps--
"I'll no' be reconciled to parting--Eh, man, that's what Auld
Jock himsel' said when he was telling me that the bit dog must be
returned to the sheep-farm: 'It wull be sair partin'.'" Tears
stood in the unashamed landlord's eyes.
Glenormiston was pulling Bobby's silkily fringed ears
thoughtfully. Through all this talk about his dead master the
little dog had not stirred. For the second time that day Bobby's
veil was pushed back, first by the most unfortunate laddie in the
decaying tenements about Greyfriars, and now by the Lord Provost
of the ancient royal burgh and capital of Scotland. And both made
the same discovery. Deep-brown pools of love, young Bobby's eyes
had dwelt upon Auld Jock. Pools of sad memories they were now,
looking out wistfully and patiently upon a masterless world.
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