se desertion
and sulked. But in a little dog's heart of trust there is no room for
suspicion. The thought simply lent wings to Bobby's tired feet. As
the market-place emptied he chased at the heels of laggards, up the
crescent-shaped rise of Candlemakers Row, and straight on to the
familiar dining-rooms. Through the forest of table and chair and human
legs he made his way to the back, to find a soldier from the Castle, in
smart red coat and polished boots, lounging in Auld Jock's inglenook.

Bobby stood stock still for a shocked instant. Then he howled
dismally and bolted for the door. Mr. John Traill, the smooth-shaven,
hatchet-faced proprietor, standing midway in shirtsleeves and white
apron, caught the flying terrier between his legs and gave him a
friendly clap on the side.

"Did you come by your ainsel' with a farthing in your silky-purse ear to
buy a bone, Bobby? Whaur's Auld Jock?"

A fear may be crowded back into the mind and stoutly denied so long as
it is not named. At the good landlord's very natural question "Whaur's
Auld Jock?" there was the shape of the little dog's fear that he had
lost his master. With a whimpering cry he struggled free. Out of the
door he went, like a shot. He tumbled down the steep curve and doubled
on his tracks around the market-place.

At his onslaught, the sparrows rose like brown leaves on a gust of wind,
and drifted down again. A cold mist veiled the Castle heights. From
the stone crown of the ancient Cathedral of St. Giles, on High Street,
floated the melody of "The Bluebells of Scotland." No day was too bleak
for bell-ringer McLeod to climb the shaking ladder in the windy tower
and play the music bells during the hour that Edinburgh dined. Bobby
forgot to dine that day, first in his distracted search, and then in his
joy of finding his master.

For, all at once, in the very strangest place, in the very strangest
way, Bobby came upon Auld Jock. A rat scurrying out from a foul and
narrow passage that gave to the rear of the White Hart Inn, pointed the
little dog to a nook hitherto undiscovered by his curious nose. Hidden
away between the noisy tavern and the grim, island crag was the old
cock-fighting pit of a ruder day. There, in a broken-down carrier's
cart, abandoned among the nameless abominations of publichouse refuse,
Auld Jock lay huddled in his greatcoat of hodden gray and his shepherd's
plaid. On a bundle of clothing tied in a tartan kerchief for a pillow,
he lay v