The lights from the street lamps flickered on the
up-turned, anxious faces. Some of the children had begun to weep.
Women offered loud suggestions. There were surmises that Bobby had
been run over by a cart in the street, and angry conjectures that
he had been stolen. Then Ailie wailed:
"Oh, Maister Traill, the bittie dog's deid!"
"Havers, lassie! I'm ashamed o' ye for a fulish bairn. Bobby's no'
deid. Nae doot he's amang the stanes i' the kirkyaird. He's aye
scramblin' aboot for vermin an' pussies, an' may hae hurt himsel',
an' ye a' ken the bonny wee wadna cry oot i' the kirkyaird. Noo,
get to wark, an' dinna stand there greetin' an' waggin' yer
tongues. The mithers an' bairns maun juist gang hame an' stap their
havers, an' licht a' the candles an' cruisey lamps i' their hames,
an' set them i' the windows aboon the kirkyaird. Greyfriars is
murky by the ordinar', an' ye couldna find a coo there wi'oot the
lichts."
The crowd suddenly melted away, so eager were they all to have a
hand in helping to find the community pet. Then Mr. Traill turned
to the boys.
"Hoo mony o' ye laddies hae the bull's-eye lanterns?"
Ah! not many in the old buildings around the kirkyard. These
japanned tin aids to dark adventures on the golf links on autumn
nights cost a sixpence and consumed candles. Geordie Ross and Sandy
McGregor, coming up arm in arm, knew of other students and clerks
who still had these cherished toys of boyhood.
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