But there,
indeed, his stout heart failed him.
It was not long before Bobby discovered that he was being pursued.
A number of soldiers and drummer boys were out hunting for him,
contritely enough, when the situation was explained by the angry
sergeant. Wherever he went voices and footsteps followed. Had the
sergeant gone alone and called in familiar speech, "Come awa' oot,
Bobby!" he would probably have run to the man. But there were so
many calls--in English, in Celtic, and in various dialects of the
Lowlands--that the little dog dared not trust them. From place to
place he was driven by fear, and when the calling stopped and the
footsteps no longer followed, he lay for a time where he could
watch the postern. A moment after he gave up the vigil there the
little back gate was opened.
Desperation led him to take another chance with men. Slipping into
the shadow of the old Governor's House, the headquarters of
commissioned officers, on the terrace above the barracks, he lay
near the open door to the mess-room, listening and watching.
The pretty ceremony of toasting the bandmaster brought all the
company about the table again, and the polite pause in the
conversation, on his exit, gave an opportunity for the captain to
speak of Bobby before the sergeant could get his message delivered.
"Gentlemen, your indulgence for a moment, to drink another toast to
a little dog that is said to have slept on his master's grave in
Greyfriars churchyard for more than eight years.
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