Hearing the clatter of fork and spoon, Bobby trotted from behind
the bar and saved the day of discomfiture. Time for dinner,
indeed! Up he came on his hind legs and politely begged his
master for food. It was the prettiest thing he could do, and the
landlord delighted in him.
"Gie 'im a penny plate o' the gude broo," said Auld Jock, and he
took the copper coin from his pocket to pay for it. He forgot his
own meal in watching the hungry little creature eat. Warmed
and softened by Mr. Traill's kindness, and by the heartening
food, Auld Jock betrayed a thought that had rankled in the depths
of his mind all day.
"Bobby isna ma ain dog." His voice was dull and unhappy.
Ah, here was misery deeper than any physical ill! The penny was
his, a senseless thing; but, poor, old, sick, hameless and
kinless, the little dog that loved and followed him "wasna his
ain." To hide the huskiness in his own voice Mr. Traill relapsed
into broad, burry Scotch.
"Dinna fash yersel', man. The wee beastie is maist michty fond o'
ye, an' ilka dog aye chooses 'is ain maister."
Auld Jock shook his head and gave a brief account of Bobby's
perversity. On the very next market-day the little dog must be
restored to the tenant of Cauldbrae farm and, if necessary, tied
in the cart. It was unlikely, young as he was, that he would try
to find his way back, all the way from near the top of the
Pentlands. In a day or two he would forget Auld Jock.
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