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Page 7
Bobby barked as if he would burst his lungs. He barked so long,
so loud, and so furiously, running 'round and 'round the cart and
under it and yelping at every turn, that a slatternly scullery
maid opened a door and angrily bade him "no' to deave folk wi'
'is blatterin'." Auld Jock she did not see at all in the murky
pit or, if she saw him, thought him some drunken foreign sailor
from Leith harbor. When she went in, she slammed the door and
lighted the gas.
Whether from some instinct of protection of his helpless master
in that foul and hostile place, or because barking had proved to
be of no use Bobby sat back on his haunches and considered this
strange, disquieting thing. It was not like Auld Jock to sleep in
the daytime, or so soundly, at any time, that barking would not
awaken him. A clever and resourceful dog, Bobby crouched back
against the farthest wall, took a running leap to the top of the
low boots, dug his claws into the stout, home knitted stockings,
and scrambled up over Auld Jock's legs into the cart. In an
instant he poked his little black mop of a wet muzzle into his
master's face and barked once, sharply, in his ear.
To Bobby's delight Auld Jock sat up and blinked his eyes. The old
eyes were brighter, the grizzled face redder than was natural,
but such matters were quite outside of the little dog's ken. It
was a dazed moment before the man remembered that Bobby should
not be there. He frowned down at the excited little creature, who
was wagging satisfaction from his nose-tip to the end of his
crested tail, in a puzzled effort to remember why.
"Eh, Bobby!" His tone was one of vague reproof. "Nae doot ye're
fair satisfied wi' yer ainsel'."
Bobby's feathered tail drooped, but it still quivered, all ready
to wag again at the slightest encouragement. Auld Jock stared at
him stupidly, his dizzy head in his hands. A very tired, very
draggled little dog, Bobby dropped beside his master, panting,
subdued by the reproach, but happy. His soft eyes, veiled by the
silvery fringe that fell from his high forehead, were deep brown
pools of affection. Auld Jock forgot, by and by, that Bobby
should not be there, and felt only the comfort of his
companionship.
"Weel, Bobby," he began again, uncertainly. And then, because his
Scotch peasant reticence had been quite broken down by Bobby's
shameless devotion, so that he told the little dog many things
that he cannily concealed from human kind, he confided the
strange weakness and dizziness in the head that had overtaken
him: "Auld Jock is juist fair silly the day, bonny wee laddie."
Down came a shaking, hot old hand in a rough caress, and up a
gallant young tail to wave like a banner. All was right with the
little dog's world again. But it was plain, even to Bobby, that
something had gone wrong with Auld Jock. It was the man who wore
the air of a culprit. A Scotch laborer does not lightly confess
to feeling "fair silly," nor sleep away the busy hours of
daylight. The old man was puzzled and humiliated by this
discreditable thing. A human friend would have understood his
plight, led the fevered man out of that bleak and fetid
cul-de-sac, tucked him into a warm bed, comforted him with a hot
drink, and then gone swiftly for skilled help. Bobby knew only
that his master had unusual need of love.
Very, very early a dog learns that life is not as simple a matter
to his master as it is to himself. There are times when he reads
trouble, that he cannot help or understand, in the man's eye and
voice. Then he can only look his love and loyalty, wistfully, as
if he felt his own shortcoming in the matter of speech. And if
the trouble is so great that the master forgets to eat his
dinner; forgets, also, the needs of his faithful little friend,
it is the dog's dear privilege to bear neglect and hunger without
complaint. Therefore, when Auld Jock lay down again and sank,
almost at once, into sodden sleep, Bobby snuggled in the hollow
of his master's arm and nuzzled his nose in his master's neck.
II.
While the bells played "There Grows a Bonny Briarbush in Our Kale
Yard," Auld Jock and Bobby slept. They slept while the tavern
emptied itself of noisy guests and clattering crockery was
washed at the dingy, gas-lighted windows that overlooked the
cockpit. They slept while the cold fell with the falling day and
the mist was whipped into driving rain. Almost a cave, between
shelving rock and house wall, a gust of wind still found its way
in now and then. At a splash of rain Auld Jock stirred uneasily
in his sleep. Bobby merely sniffed the freshened air with
pleasure and curled himself up for another nap.
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