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Page 65
"Losh! The sma' dog cam' by 'is ainsel'! He could no' resist the
braw soldier laddies. 'He's a dog o' discreemination,' eh? Gin he
bides a wee, noo, it wull tak' the conceit oot o' the innkeeper."
He turned to gather up his tools, for the first dinner bugle was
blowing. Bobby knew by the gun that it was the dinner-hour, but he
had been fed at the farm and was not hungry. He might as well see a
bit more of life. He sat upon the cannon, not in the least
impressed by the honor, and lolled his tongue.
In Edinburgh Castle there was nothing to alarm a little dog. A
dozen or more large buildings, in three or four groups, and
representing many periods of architecture, lay to the south and
west on the lowest terraces, and about them were generous parked
spaces. Into the largest of the buildings, a long, four-storied
barracks, the soldiers had vanished. And now, at the blowing of a
second bugle, half a hundred orderlies hurried down from a modern
cook-house, near the summit, with cans of soup and meat and
potatoes. The sergeant followed one of these into a room on the
front of the barracks. In their serge fatigue-tunics the sixteen
men about the long table looked as different from the gay soldiers
of the march as though so many scarlet and gold and bonneted
butterflies had turned back into sad-colored grubs.
"Private McLean," he called to his batman who, for one-and-six a
week, cared for his belongings, "tak' chairge o' the dog, wull ye,
an' fetch 'im to the non-com mess when ye come to put ma kit i'
gude order."
Before he could answer the bombardment of questions about Bobby the
door was opened again. The men dropped their knives and forks and
stood at attention. The officer of the day was making the rounds of
the forty or fifty such rooms in the barracks to inquire of the
soldiers if their dinner was satisfactory. He recognized at once
the attractive little Skye that had taken the eyes of the men on
the march, and asked about him. Sergeant Scott explained that Bobby
had no owner. He was living, by permission, in Greyfriars kirkyard,
guarding the grave of a long-dead, humble master, and was fed by
the landlord of the dining-rooms near the gate. If the little dog
took a fancy to garrison life, and the regiment to him, he thought
Mr. Traill, who had the best claim upon him, might consent to his
transfer to the Castle. After orders, at sunset, he would take
Bobby down to the restaurant himself.
"I wish you good luck, Sergeant." The officer whistled, and Bobby
leaped upon him and off again, and indulged in many inconsequent
friskings. "Before you take him home fetch him over to the
officers' mess at dinner. It is guest night, and he is sure to
interest the gentlemen. A loyal little creature who has guarded his
dead master's grave for more than eight years deserves to have a
toast drunk to him by the officers of the Queen. But it's an
extraordinary story, and it doesn't sound altogether probable.
Jolly little beggar!" He patted Bobby cordially on the side, and
went out.
The news of his advent and fragments of his story spread so quickly
through the barracks that mess after mess swarmed down from the
upper moors and out into the roadway to see Bobby. Private McLean
stood in the door, smoking a cutty pipe, and grinning with pride in
the merry little ruffian of a terrier, who met the friendly
advances of the soldiers more than half-way. Bobby's guardian would
have liked very well to have sat before the canteen in the sun and
gossiped about his small charge. However, in the sergeant's
sleeping-quarters above the mess-room, he had the little dog all to
himself, and Bobby had the liveliest interest in the boxes and
pots, brushes and sponges, and in the processes of polishing,
burnishing, and pipe-claying a soldier's boots and buttons and
belts. As he worked at his valeting, the man kept time with his
foot to rude ballads that he sang in such a hissing Celtic that
Bobby barked, scandalized by a dialect that had been music in the
ears of his ancestors. At that Private McLean danced a Highland
fling for him, and wee Bobby came near bursting with excitement.
When the sergeant came up to make a magnificent toilet for tea and
for the evening in town, the soldier expressed himself with
enthusiasm.
"He iss a deffle of a dog, sir!"
He was thought to be a "deffle of a dog" in the mess, where the
non-com officers had tea at small writing and card tables. They
talked and laughed very fast and loud, tried Bobby out on all the
pretty tricks he knew, and taught him to speak and to jump for a
lump of sugar balanced on his nose. They did not fondle him, and
this rough, masculine style of pampering and petting was very much
to his liking. It was a proud thing, too, for a little dog, to walk
out with the sergeant's shining boots and twirled walkingstick, and
be introduced into one strange place after another all around the
Castle.
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