The caretaker was literally badgered and cajoled into
following him. One glance at the formidable heap of the slain,
and Mr. Brown dropped to a seat on the slab.
"Preserve us a'!"
He stared from the little dog to his victims,
turned them over with his stout stick and counted them, and
stared again. Bobby fixed his pleading eyes on the man and stood
at strained attention while fate hung in the balance.
"Guile wark! Guile wark! A braw doggie, an' an unco' fechter.
Losh! but ye're a deil o' a bit dog!"
All this was said in a tone of astonished comment, so
non-committal of feeling that Bobby's tail began to twitch in the
stress of his anxiety. When the caretaker spoke again, after a
long, puzzled frowning, it was to express a very human
bewilderment and irritation.
"Noo, what am I gangin' to do wi' ye?"
Ah, that was encouraging! A moment before, he had ordered Bobby
out in no uncertain tone. After another moment he referred the
question to a higher court.
"Jeanie, woman, come awa' oot a meenit, wull ye?"
A hasty pattering of carpet-slippered feet on the creaking snow,
around the kirk, and there was the neatest little apple-cheeked
peasant woman in Scotland, "snod" from her smooth, frosted hair,
spotless linen mutch and lawn kerchief, to her white, lamb's wool
stockings.
"Here's the bit dog I was tellin' ye aboot; an' see for yersel'
what he's done noo."
"The wee beastie couldna do a' that! It's as muckle as his ain
wecht in fou' vermin!" she cried.
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