"Man, auld John Knox will turn over in his bit grave in
Parliament Close if you put a 'kist o' whustles' in St. Giles."
Mr. Traill laughed.
"I admit I might have stopped short of the organ but for the
courageous example of Doctor Lee in Greyfriars. It was from him
that I had a quite extravagant account of this wee, leal
Highlander a few years ago. I have aye meant to go to see him;
but I'm a busy man and the matter passed out of mind. Mr. Traill,
I'm your sadly needed witness: I heard you from the doorway of
the court-room, and I sent up a note confirming your story and
asking, as a courtesy, that the case be turned over to me for
some exceptional disposal. Would you mind telling another man the
tale that so moved Doctor Lee? I've aye had a fondness for the
human document."
So there, above the pulpit of the High Kirk of St. Giles, the
tale was told again, so strangely did this little dog's life come
to be linked with the highest and lowest, the proudest and
humblest in the Scottish capital. Now, at mention of Auld Jock,
Bobby put his shagged paws up inquiringly on the edge of the pew,
so that Mr. Traill lifted him. He lay down flat between the two
men, with his nose on his paws, and his little tousled head under
the Lord Provost's hand.
Auld Jock lived again in that recital. Glenormiston, coming from
the country of the Ettrick shepherd, knew such lonely figures,
and the pathos of old age and waning powers that drove them in to
the poor quarters of towns.
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