But oh, necessity is the mother of makeshifts among the
poor! Suddenly Ailie cried: "Bide a meenit, Tammy," and vanished.
Presently she was back, with the difficulty overcome. "Grannie
says I can wear her shoon. She doesna wear 'em i' the hoose,
ava."
"I'll gie ye a saxpence, Ailie," offered Tammy.
The sordid bargain shocked no feeling of these tenement bairns
nor marred their pleasure in the adventure. Presently there was a
tap-tap-tapping of crutches on the heavy gallery that fronted the
Cunzie Neuk, and on the stairs that descended from it to the
steep and curving row. The lassie draped a fragment of an old
plaid deftly over her thinly clad shoulders, climbed through the
window, to the pediment of the classic tomb that blocked it, and
dropped into the kirkyard. To her surprise Bobby was there at her
feet, frantically wagging his tail, and he raced her to the gate.
She caught him on the steps of the dining room, and held his
wriggling little body fast until Tammy came up.
It was a tumultuous little group that burst in upon the
astonished landlord: barking fluff of an excited dog, flying
lassie in clattering big shoes, and wee, tapping Tammy. They
literally fell upon him when he was engaged in counting out his
money.
"Whaur did you find him?" asked Mr. Traill in bewilderment.
Six-year-old Ailie slipped a shy finger into her mouth, and
looked to the very much more mature five-year old crippled laddie
to answer
"He was i' the kirkyaird.
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