arted he warned Mr. Traill, laughingly, that he meant
to kidnap Bobby the very first chance he got. The Castle pet had died,
and Bobby was altogether too good a dog to be wasted on a moldy auld
kirkyard and thrown on a dust-cart when he came to die.

Mr. Traill resented the imputation. "He'll no' be thrown on a
dust-cart!"

The door was shut on the mocking retort "Hoo do ye ken he wullna?"

And there was food for gloomy reflection. The landlord could not know,
in truth, what Bobby's ultimate fate might be. But little over nine
years of age, he should live only five or six years longer at most. Of
his friends, Mr. Brown was ill and aging, and might have to give place
to a younger man. He himself was in his prime, but he could not be
certain of living longer than this hardy little dog. For the first
time he realized the truth of Dr. Lee's saying that everybody's dog was
nobody's dog. The tenement children held Bobby in a sort of community
affection. He was the special pet of the Heriot laddies, but a class was
sent into the world every year and was scattered far. Not one of all the
hundreds of bairns who had known and loved this little dog could give
him any real care or protection.

For the rest, Bobby had remained almost unknown. Many of the
congregations of old and new Greyfriars had never seen or heard of him.
When strangers were about he seemed to prefer lying in his retreat under
the fallen tomb. His Sunday-afternoon naps he usually took in the lodge
kitchen. And so, it might very well happen that his old age would be
friendless, that he would come to some forlorn end, and be carried away
on the dustman's cart. It might, indeed, be better for him to end
his days in love and honor in the Castle. But to this solution of the
problem Mr. Traill himself was not reconciled.

Sensing some shifting of the winds in the man's soul, Bobby trotted over
to lick his hand. Then he sat up on the hearth and lolled his tongue,
reminding the good landlord that he had one cheerful friend to bear him
company on the blaw-weary day. It was thus they sat, companionably,
when a Burgh policeman who was well known to Mr. Traill came in to
dry himself by the fire. Gloomy thoughts were dispelled at once by the
instinct of hospitality.

"You're fair wet, man. Pull a chair to the hearth. And you have a bit
smut on your nose, Davie."

"It's frae the railway engine. Edinburgh was a reekie toon eneugh
afore the engines cam' in an' belched sm