Greyfriars Bobby | Page 7

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.
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,"