" And then he began to laugh. "Did you
ever hear o' sic a thing as poetic justice, Sergeant? Nae, it's no'
the kind you'll get in the courts of law. Weel, it's poetic justice
for a birkie soldier, wha claims the airth and the fullness
thereof, to have to tak' his orders from a sma' shopkeeper. Go up
to the police office in St. Gila now and ask for an officer to
stand at the gate here to answer questions, and to keep the folk
awa' from the lodge."
He stood guard himself, and satisfied a score of visitors before
the sergeant came back, and there was another instance of poetic
justice, in the crestfallen Burgh policeman who had been sent with
instructions to take his orders from the delighted landlord.
"Eh, Davie, it's a lang lane that has nae turning. Ye're juist to
stand here a' the day an' say to ilka body wha spiers for the dog:
'Ay, sir, Greyfriars Bobby's been leevin' i' the kirkyaird aucht
years an' mair, an' Maister Traill's aye fed 'im i' the
dining-rooms. Ay, the case was dismissed i' the Burgh coort. The
Laird Provost gied a collar to the bit Skye because there's a
meddlin' fule or twa amang the Burgh police wha'd be takin' 'im up.
The doggie's i' the lodge wi' the caretaker, wha's fair ill, an' he
canna be seen the day. But gang aroond the kirk an' ye can see Auld
Jock's grave that he's aye guarded. There's nae stave to it, but
it's neist to the fa'en table-tomb o' Mistress Jean Grant. A gude
day to ye.
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