In Greyfriars
kirkyard was work to be done that he could do. For quite three
centuries rats and mice had multiplied in this old sanctuary
garden from which cats were chased and dogs excluded. Every
breeze that blew carried challenges to Bobby's offended nose.
Now, in the crisp gray dawn, a big rat came out into the open and
darted here and there over the powdering of dry snow that frosted
the kirkyard.
A leap, as if released from a spring, and Bobby captured it. A
snap of his long muzzle, a jerk of his stoutly set head, and the
victim hung limp from his grip. And he followed another deeply
seated instinct when he carried the slain to Auld Jock's grave.
Trophies of the chase were always to be laid at the feet of the
master.
"Gude dog! eh, but ye're a bonny wee fechter!" Auld Jock had
always said after such an exploit; and Bobby had been petted and
praised until he nearly wagged his crested tail off with
happiness and pride. Then he had been given some choice tidbit of
food as a reward for his prowess. The farmer of Cauldbrae had on
such occasions admitted that Bobby might be of use about barn and
dairy, and Mr. Traill had commended his capture of prowlers in
the dining-room. But Bobby was "ower young" and had not been "put
to the vermin" as a definite business in life. He caught a rat,
now and then, as he chased rabbits, merely as a diversion. When
he had caught this one he lay down again. But after a time he got
up deliberately and trotted down to the encircling line of old
courtyarded tombs.
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