They had turned toward the gate when a stranger
with a newspaper in his hand peered mildly around the kirk and
inquired "Do ye ken whaur's the sma' dog, man?" As Mr. Traill
continued to stare at him he explained, patiently: "It's Greyfriars
Bobby, the bittie terrier the Laird Provost gied the collar to. Hae
ye no' seen 'The Scotsman' the day?"
The landlord had not. And there was the story, Bobby's, name
heading quite a quarter of a broad column of fine print, and
beginning with: "A very singular and interesting occurrence was
brought to light in the Burgh court by the hearing of a summons in
regard to a dog tax." Bobby was a famous dog, and Mr. Traill came
in for a goodly portion of reflected glory. He threw up his hands
in dismay.
"It's all over the toon, Sergeant." Turning to the stranger, he
assured him that Bobby was not to be seen. "He hurt himsel' coming
down Castle Rock in the nicht, and is in the lodge with the
caretaker, wha's fair ill. Hoo do I ken?" testily. "Weel, man, I'm
Mr. Traill."
He saw at once how unwise was that admission, for he had to shake
hands with the cordial stranger. And after dismissing him there was
another at the gate who insisted upon going up to the lodge to see
the little hero. Here was a state of things, indeed, that called
upon all the powers of the resourceful landlord.
"All the folk in Edinburgh will be coming, and the poor woman be
deaved with their spiering.
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