ster was getting the worst of it, Bobby
rushed into the fray, an animated little muff of pluck and fury, and
nipped the caretaker's shins. There was a howl of pain, and a "maist
michty" word that made the ancient tombs stand aghast. Master and dog
were hustled outside the gate and into a rabble of jeering slum gamin.

What a to-do about a miserable cat! To Bobby there was no logic at all
in the denouement to this swift, exciting drama. But he understood Auld
Jock's shame and displeasure perfectly. Good-tempered as he was gay and
clever, the little dog took his punishment meekly, and he remembered
it. Thereafter, he passed the kirk yard gate decorously. If he saw a cat
that needed harrying he merely licked his little red chops--the outward
sign of a desperate self-control. And, a true sport, he bore no malice
toward the caretaker.

During that first summer of his life Bobby learned many things. He
learned that he might chase rabbits, squirrels and moor-fowl, and
sea-gulls and whaups that came up to feed in plowed fields. Rats and
mice around byre and dairy were legitimate prey; but he learned that he
must not annoy sheep and sheep-dogs, nor cattle, horses and chickens.
And he discovered that, unless he hung close to Auld Jock's heels, his
freedom was in danger from a wee lassie who adored him. He was no lady's
lap-dog. From the bairnie's soft cosseting he aye fled to Auld Jock
and the rough hospitality of the sheep fold. Being exact opposites in
temperaments, but alike in tastes, Bobby and Auld Jock were inseparable.
In the quiet corner of Mr. Traill's crowded dining-room they spent the
one idle hour of the week together, happily. Bobby had the leavings of a
herring or haddie, for a rough little Skye will eat anything from smoked
fish to moor-fowl eggs, and he had the tidbit of a farthing bone to
worry at his leisure. Auld Jock smoked his cutty pipe, gazed at the fire
or into the kirk-yard, and meditated on nothing in particular.

In some strange way that no dog could understand, Bobby had been
separated from Auld Jock that November morning. The tenant of Cauldbrae
farm had driven the cart in, himself, and that was unusual. Immediately
he had driven out again, leaving Auld Jock behind, and that was quite
outside Bobby's brief experience of life. Beguiled to the lofty and
coveted driver's seat where, with lolling tongue, he could view this
interesting world between the horse's ears, Bobby had been spirited out
of the ci