om mess when ye come to put ma kit i' gude order."

Before he could answer the bombardment of questions about Bobby the door
was opened again. The men dropped their knives and forks and stood at
attention. The officer of the day was making the rounds of the forty
or fifty such rooms in the barracks to inquire of the soldiers if their
dinner was satisfactory. He recognized at once the attractive little
Skye that had taken the eyes of the men on the march, and asked about
him. Sergeant Scott explained that Bobby had no owner. He was living, by
permission, in Greyfriars kirkyard, guarding the grave of a long-dead,
humble master, and was fed by the landlord of the dining-rooms near the
gate. If the little dog took a fancy to garrison life, and the regiment
to him, he thought Mr. Traill, who had the best claim upon him, might
consent to his transfer to the Castle. After orders, at sunset, he would
take Bobby down to the restaurant himself.

"I wish you good luck, Sergeant." The officer whistled, and Bobby leaped
upon him and off again, and indulged in many inconsequent friskings.
"Before you take him home fetch him over to the officers' mess at
dinner. It is guest night, and he is sure to interest the gentlemen. A
loyal little creature who has guarded his dead master's grave for more
than eight years deserves to have a toast drunk to him by the officers
of the Queen. But it's an extraordinary story, and it doesn't sound
altogether probable. Jolly little beggar!" He patted Bobby cordially on
the side, and went out.

The news of his advent and fragments of his story spread so quickly
through the barracks that mess after mess swarmed down from the upper
moors and out into the roadway to see Bobby. Private McLean stood in the
door, smoking a cutty pipe, and grinning with pride in the merry little
ruffian of a terrier, who met the friendly advances of the soldiers more
than half-way. Bobby's guardian would have liked very well to have
sat before the canteen in the sun and gossiped about his small charge.
However, in the sergeant's sleeping-quarters above the mess-room, he had
the little dog all to himself, and Bobby had the liveliest interest
in the boxes and pots, brushes and sponges, and in the processes of
polishing, burnishing, and pipe-claying a soldier's boots and buttons
and belts. As he worked at his valeting, the man kept time with his foot
to rude ballads that he sang in such a hissing Celtic that Bobby
barked, scanda