Word had been left at all the inns and carting offices about both markets for the tenant of Cauldbrae farm to call at Mr.Traill's place for Bobby.The man appeared Wednesday afternoon, driving a big Clydesdale horse to a stout farm cart.The low-ceiled dining-room suddenly shrank about the big-boned, long legged hill man.The fact embarrassed him, as did also a voice cultivated out of all proportion to town houses, by shouting to dogs and shepherds on windy shoulders of the Pentlands.
"Hae ye got the dog wi' ye?"
Mr.Train pointed to Bobby, deep in a blissful, after dinner nap under the settle.
The farmer breathed a sigh of relief, sat at a table, and ate a frugal meal of bread and cheese.As roughly dressed as Auld Jock, in a metal-buttoned greatcoat of hodden gray, a woolen bonnet, and the shepherd's twofold plaid, he was a different species of human being altogether.A long, lean, sinewy man of early middle age, he had a smooth-shaven, bony jaw, far-seeing gray eyes under furzy brows, and a shock of auburn hair.When he spoke, it was to give bits out of his own experience.
"Thae terriers are usefu' eneugh on an ordinar' fairm an' i' the toon to keep awa' the vermin, but I wadna gie a twa-penny-bit for ane o' them on a sheep-fairm.There's a wee lassie at Cauldbrae wha wants Bobby for a pet.It wasna richt for Auld Jock to win 'im awa' frae the bairn."Mr.Traill's hand was lifted in rebuke."Speak nae ill, man; Auld Jock's dead."The farmer's ruddy face blanched and he dropped his knife."He's no' buried so sane?""Ay, he's buried four days since in Greyfriars kirkyard, and Bobby has slept every night on the auld man's grave.""I'll juist tak' a leuk at the grave, moil, gin ye'll hae an ee on the dog."Mr.Traill cautioned him not to let the caretaker know that Bobby had continued to sleep in the kirkyard, after having been put out twice.The farmer was back in ten minutes, with a canny face that defied reading.He lighted his short Dublin pipe and smoked it out before he spoke again.
"It's ower grand for a puir auld shepherd body to be buried i'
Greyfriars."
"No' so grand as heaven, I'm thinking." Mr.Traill's response was dry.
"Ay, an' we're a' coontin' on gangin' there; but it's a prood thing to hae yer banes put awa' in Greyfriars, ance ye're through wi' 'em!""Nae doubt the gude auld man would rather be alive on the Pentland braes than dead in Greyfriars.""Ay," the farmer admitted."He was fair fond o' the hills, an'
no' likin' the toon.An', moil, he was a wonder wi' the lambs.
He'd gang wi' a collie ower miles o' country in roarin' weather, an' he'd aye fetch the lost sheep hame.The auld moil was nane so weel furnished i' the heid, but bairnies and beasts were unco'
fond o' 'im.It wasna his fau't that Bobby was aye at his heels.
The lassie wad 'a' been after'im, gin 'er mither had permeeted it."Mr.Traill asked him why he had let so valuable a man go, and the farmer replied at once that he was getting old and could no longer do the winter work.To any but a Scotchman brought up near the sheep country this would have sounded hard, but Mr.Traill knew that the farmers on the wild, tipped-up moors were themselves hard pressed to meet rent and taxes.To keep a shepherd incapacitated by age and liable to lose a flock in a snow-storm, was to invite ruin.And presently the man showed, unwittingly, how sweet a kernel the heart may lie under the shell of sordid necessity.
"I didna ken the auld man was fair ill or he micht hae bided at the fairm an' tak'n 'is ain time to dee at 'is ease."As Bobby unrolled and stretched to an awakening, the farmer got up, took him unaware and thrust him into a covered basket.He had no intention of letting the little creature give him the slip again.Bobby howled at the indignity, and struggled and tore at the stout wickerwork.It went to Mr.Traill's heart to hear him, and to see the gallant little dog so defenseless.He talked to him through the latticed cover all the way out to the cart, telling him Auld Jock meant for him to go home.At that beloved name, Bobby dropped to the bottom of the basket and cried in such a heartbroken way that tears stood in the landlord's eyes, and even the farmer confessed to a sudden "cauld in 'is heid.""I'd gie 'im to ye, mon, gin it wasna that the bit lassie wad greet her bonny een oot gin I didna fetch 'im hame.Nae boot the bit tyke wad 'a' deed gin ye hadna fed 'im.""Eh, man, he'll no' bide with me, or I'd be bargaining for him.
And he'll no' be permitted to live in the kirkyard.I know naething in this life more pitiful than a masterless, hameless dog." And then, to delay the moment of parting with Bobby, who stopped crying and began to lick his hand in frantic appeal through a hole in the basket, Mr.
Traill asked how Bobby came by his name.
"It was a leddy o' the neeborhood o' Swanston.She cam' drivin'
by Cauldbrae i' her bit cart wi' shaggy Shetlands to it an'
stapped at the dairy for a drink o' buttermilk frae the kirn.
Syne she saw the sonsie puppy loupin' at Auld Jock's heels, bonny as a poodle, but mair knowin'.The leddy gied me a poond note for 'im.I put 'im up on the seat, an' she said that noo she had a smart Hieland groom to match 'er Hieland steeds, an' she flicked the ponies wi' 'er whup.Syne the bit dog was on the airth an'
flyin' awa' doon the road like the deil was after 'im.An' the leddy lauched an' lauched, an' went awa' wi'oot 'im.At the fut o' the brae she was still lauchin', an' she ca'ed back: 'Gie 'im the name o' Bobby, gude mon.He's left the plow-tail an's aff to Edinburgh to mak' his fame an' fortune.' I didna ken what the leddy meant.""Man, she meant he was like Bobby Burns."Here was a literary flavor that gave added attraction to a man who sat at the feet of the Scottish muses.The landlord sighed as he went back to the doorway, and he stood there listening to the clatter of the cart and rough-shod horse and to the mournful howling of the little dog, until the sounds died away in Forest Road.
