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.
No rain could wet Bobby. Under his rough outer coat, that was
parted along the back as neatly as the thatch along a cottage
ridge-pole, was a dense, woolly fleece that defied wind and rain,
snow and sleet to penetrate.
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