|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 6
"Eh, Bobby; the wee lassie wull be at the tap o' the brae to race
ye hame."
Bobby pricked his drop ears. Within a narrow limit, and
concerning familiar things, the understanding of human speech by
these intelligent little terriers is very truly remarkable. At
mention of the wee lassie he looked behind for his rough old
friend and unfailing refuge. Auld Jock's absence discovered,
Bobby promptly dropped from the seat of honor and from the cart
tail, sniffed the smoke of Edinboro' town and faced right about.
To the farmer's peremptory call he returned the spicy repartee of
a cheerful bark. It was as much as to say:
"Dinna fash yersel'! I ken what I'm aboot."
After an hour's hard run back over the dipping and rising country
road and a long quarter circuit of the city, Bobby found the
high-walled, winding way into the west end of the Grassmarket. To
a human being afoot there was a shorter cut, but the little dog
could only retrace the familiar route of the farm carts. It was a
notable feat for a small creature whose tufted legs were not more
than six inches in length, whose thatch of long hair almost swept
the roadway and caught at every burr and bramble, and who was
still so young that his nose could not be said to be educated.
In the market-place he ran here and there through the crowd,
hopefully investigating narrow closes that were mere rifts in
precipices of buildings; nosing outside stairs, doorways,
stables, bridge arches, standing carts, and even hob-nailed
boots. He yelped at the crash of the gun, but it was another
matter altogether that set his little heart to palpitating with
alarm. It was the dinner-hour, and where was Auld Jock?
Ah! A happy thought: his master had gone to dinner!
A human friend would have resented the idea of such base
desertion and sulked. But in a little dog's heart of trust there
is no room for suspicion. The thought simply lent wings to
Bobby's tired feet. As the market-place emptied he chased at the
heels of laggards, up the crescent-shaped rise of Candlemakers
Row, and straight on to the familiar dining-rooms. Through the
forest of table and chair and human legs he made his way to the
back, to find a soldier from the Castle, in smart red coat and
polished boots, lounging in Auld Jock's inglenook.
Bobby stood stock still for a shocked instant. Then he howled
dismally and bolted for the door. Mr. John Traill, the
smooth-shaven, hatchet-faced proprietor, standing midway in
shirtsleeves and white apron, caught the flying terrier between
his legs and gave him a friendly clap on the side.
"Did you come by your ainsel' with a farthing in your silky-purse
ear to buy a bone, Bobby? Whaur's Auld Jock?"
A fear may be crowded back into the mind and stoutly denied so
long as it is not named. At the good landlord's very natural
question "Whaur's Auld Jock?" there was the shape of the little
dog's fear that he had lost his master. With a whimpering cry he
struggled free. Out of the door he went, like a shot. He tumbled
down the steep curve and doubled on his tracks around the
market-place.
At his onslaught, the sparrows rose like brown leaves on a gust
of wind, and drifted down again. A cold mist veiled the Castle
heights. From the stone crown of the ancient Cathedral of St.
Giles, on High Street, floated the melody of "The Bluebells of
Scotland." No day was too bleak for bell-ringer McLeod to climb
the shaking ladder in the windy tower and play the music bells
during the hour that Edinburgh dined. Bobby forgot to dine that
day, first in his distracted search, and then in his joy of
finding his master.
For, all at once, in the very strangest place, in the very
strangest way, Bobby came upon Auld Jock. A rat scurrying out
from a foul and narrow passage that gave to the rear of the
White Hart Inn, pointed the little dog to a nook hitherto
undiscovered by his curious nose. Hidden away between the noisy
tavern and the grim, island crag was the old cock-fighting pit of
a ruder day. There, in a broken-down carrier's cart, abandoned
among the nameless abominations of publichouse refuse, Auld Jock
lay huddled in his greatcoat of hodden gray and his shepherd's
plaid. On a bundle of clothing tied in a tartan kerchief for a
pillow, he lay very still and breathing heavily.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|