Mr. Brown listened to the story of Bobby’s adventures with a mingled look of disgust at the foolishness of men, pride in Bobby’s prowess, and resentment at having been left out of the drama of the night before.  “It’s maist michty, noo, Maister Traill, that ye wad tak’ the leeberty o’ leein’ to me,” he complained.

“It was a gude lee or a bad nicht for an ill man.  Geordie will tell you that a mind at ease is worth four shullings, and I’m charging you naething.  Eh, man, you’re deeficult to please.”  As he went out into the kirkyard Mr. Traill stopped to reflect on a strange thing:  “‘You’ve done very well, Mr. Ross.’  Weel, weel, how the laddies do grow up!  But I’m no’ going to admit it to Geordie.”

Another thought, over which he chuckled, sent him off to find the sergeant.  The soldier was tramping gloomily about in the wet, to the demoralization of his beautiful boots.

“Man, since a stormy nicht eight years ago last November I’ve aye been looking for a bigger weel meaning fule than my ain sel’.  You’re the man, so if you’ll just shak’ hands we’ll say nae more about it.”

He did not explain this cryptic remark, but he went on to assure the sorry soldier that Bobby had got no serious hurt and would soon be as well as ever.  They had turned toward the gate when a stranger with a newspaper in his hand peered mildly around the kirk and inquired “Do ye ken whaur’s the sma’ dog, man?” As Mr. Traill continued to stare at him he explained, patiently:  “It’s Greyfriars Bobby, the bittie terrier the Laird Provost gied the collar to.  Hae ye no’ seen ‘The Scotsman’ the day?”

The landlord had not.  And there was the story, Bobby’s, name heading quite a quarter of a broad column of fine print, and beginning with:  “A very singular and interesting occurrence was brought to light in the Burgh court by the hearing of a summons in regard to a dog tax.”  Bobby was a famous dog, and Mr. Traill came in for a goodly portion of reflected glory.  He threw up his hands in dismay.

“It’s all over the toon, Sergeant.”  Turning to the stranger, he assured him that Bobby was not to be seen.  “He hurt himsel’ coming down Castle Rock in the nicht, and is in the lodge with the caretaker, wha’s fair ill.  Hoo do I ken?” testily.  “Weel, man, I’m Mr. Traill.”

He saw at once how unwise was that admission, for he had to shake hands with the cordial stranger.  And after dismissing him there was another at the gate who insisted upon going up to the lodge to see the little hero.  Here was a state of things, indeed, that called upon all the powers of the resourceful landlord.

“All the folk in Edinburgh will be coming, and the poor woman be deaved with their spiering.”  And then he began to laugh.  “Did you ever hear o’ sic a thing as poetic justice, Sergeant?  Nae, it’s no’ the kind you’ll get in the courts of law.  Weel, it’s poetic justice for a birkie soldier, wha claims the airth and the fullness thereof, to have to tak’ his orders from a sma’ shopkeeper.  Go up to the police office in St. Gila now and ask for an officer to stand at the gate here to answer questions, and to keep the folk awa’ from the lodge.”