"Havers, mannie;
there's no' onybody named for an auld buryin' groond."
The children fled. There was no use at all in wasting time on
folk who did not know Bobby, for it would take too long to
explain him. But, alas, they soon discovered that "maist ilka
body" did not know the little dog, as they had so confidently
supposed. He was sure to be known only in the rooms at the rear
that overlooked the kirkyard, and, as one went upward, his
identity became less and less distinct. He was such a wee, wee,
canny terrier, and so many of the windows had their views
constantly shut out by washings. Around the inner courts, where
unkempt women brought every sort of work out to the light on the
galleries and mended worthless rags, gossiped, and nursed their
babies on the stairs, Bobby had sometimes been heard of, but
almost never seen. Children often knew him where their elders did
not. By the time Ailie and Tammy had worked swiftly down to the
bottom of the Row other children began to follow them, moved by
the peril of the little dog to sympathy and eager sacrifice.
"Bide a wee, Ailie!" cried one, running to overtake the lassie.
"Here's a penny. I was gangin' for milk for the porridge. We can
do wi'oot the day."
And there was the money for the broth bone, and the farthing that
would have filled the gude-man's evening pipe, and the ha'penny
for the grandmither's tea. It was the world-over story of the
poor helping the poor.
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