Greyfriars Bobby | Page 5

held the two tall
leaves ajar by day, chanced to be open, he had joyously chased a cat
across the graves and over the western wall onto the broad green lawn
of Heriot's Hospital.
There the little dog's escapade bred other mischief, for Heriot's Hospital
was not a hospital at all, in the modern English sense of being a refuge
for the sick. Built and christened in a day when a Stuart king reigned in
Holyrood Palace, and French was spoken in the Scottish court, Heriot's
was a splendid pile of a charity school, all towers and battlements, and
cheerful color, and countless beautiful windows. Endowed by a
beruffed and doubleted goldsmith, "Jinglin' Geordie" Heriot, who had
"nae brave laddie o' his ain," it was devoted to the care and education of
"puir orphan an' faderless boys." There it had stood for more than two
centuries, in a spacious park, like the country-seat of a Lowland laird,
but hemmed in by sordid markets and swarming slums. The region
round about furnished an unfailing supply of "puir orphan an' faderless

boys" who were as light-hearted and irresponsible as Bobby.
Hundreds of the Heriot laddies were out in the noon recess, playing
cricket and leap-frog, when Bobby chased that unlucky cat over the
kirkyard wall. He could go no farther himself, but the laddies took up
the pursuit, yelling like Highland clans of old in a foray across the
border. The unholy din disturbed the sacred peace of the kirkyard.
Bobby dashed back, barking furiously, in pure exuberance of spirits. He
tumbled gaily over grassy hummocks, frisked saucily around terrifying
old mausoleums, wriggled under the most enticing of low-set table
tombs and sprawled, exhausted, but still happy and noisy, at Auld
Jock's feet.
It was a scandalous thing to happen in any kirkyard! The angry
caretaker was instantly out of his little stone lodge by the gate and
taking Auld Jock sharply to task for Bobby's misbehavior. The pious
old shepherd, shocked him self and publicly disgraced, stood, bonnet in
hand, humbly apologetic. Seeing that his master was getting the worst
of it, Bobby rushed into the fray, an animated little muff of pluck and
fury, and nipped the caretaker's shins. There was a howl of pain, and a
"maist michty" word that made the ancient tombs stand aghast. Master
and dog were hustled outside the gate and into a rabble of jeering slum
gamin.
What a to-do about a miserable cat! To Bobby there was no logic at all
in the denouement to this swift, exciting drama. But he understood
Auld Jock's shame and displeasure perfectly. Good-tempered as he was
gay and clever, the little dog took his punishment meekly, and he
remembered it. Thereafter, he passed the kirk yard gate decorously. If
he saw a cat that needed harrying he merely licked his little red
chops--the outward sign of a desperate self-control. And, a true sport,
he bore no malice toward the caretaker.
During that first summer of his life Bobby learned many things. He
learned that he might chase rabbits, squirrels and moor-fowl, and
sea-gulls and whaups that came up to feed in plowed fields. Rats and
mice around byre and dairy were legitimate prey; but he learned that he
must not annoy sheep and sheep-dogs, nor cattle, horses and chickens.

And he discovered that, unless he hung close to Auld Jock's heels, his
freedom was in danger from a wee lassie who adored him. He was no
lady's lap-dog. From the bairnie's soft cosseting he aye fled to Auld
Jock and the rough hospitality of the sheep fold. Being exact opposites
in temperaments, but alike in tastes, Bobby and Auld Jock were
inseparable. In the quiet corner of Mr. Traill's crowded dining-room
they spent the one idle hour of the week together, happily. Bobby had
the leavings of a herring or haddie, for a rough little Skye will eat
anything from smoked fish to moor-fowl eggs, and he had the tidbit of
a farthing bone to worry at his leisure. Auld Jock smoked his cutty pipe,
gazed at the fire or into the kirk-yard, and meditated on nothing in
particular.
In some strange way that no dog could understand, Bobby had been
separated from Auld Jock that November morning. The tenant of
Cauldbrae farm had driven the cart in, himself, and that was unusual.
Immediately he had driven out again, leaving Auld Jock behind, and
that was quite outside Bobby's brief experience of life. Beguiled to the
lofty and coveted driver's seat where, with lolling tongue, he could
view this interesting world between the horse's ears, Bobby had been
spirited out of the city and carried all the way down and up to the
hilltop toll-bar of Fairmilehead. It could not occur to his loyal little
heart that this treachery