Greyfriars Bobby | Page 6

was planned nor, stanch little democrat that he
was, that the farmer was really his owner, and that he could not follow
a humbler master of his own choosing. He might have been carried to
the distant farm, and shut safely in the byre with the cows for the night,
but for an incautious remark of the farmer. With the first scent of the
native heather the horse quickened his pace, and, at sight of the purple
slopes of the Pentlands looming homeward, a fond thought at the back
of the man's mind very naturally took shape in speech.
"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