“There’s eneugh,” he said.  There was enough, by careful spending, to pay for food and lodging for a few weeks, to save himself from the charity of the infirmary.  By this act he admitted the humiliating and fearful fact that he was very ill.  The precious little hoard must be hidden from the chance prowler.  He looked for a loose brick in the fireplace, but before he found one, he forgot all about it, and absent-mindedly heaped the coins in a little pile on the open Bible at the back of the bed.

For a long time Auld Jock sat there with his head in his hands before he again slipped back to his pillow.  Darkness stole into the quiet room.  The lodgers returned to their dens one after one, tramping or slipping or hobbling up the stairs and along the passage.  Bobby bristled and froze, on guard, when a stealthy hand tried the latch.  Then there were sounds of fighting, of crying women, and the long, low wailing of-wretched children.  The evening drum and bugle were heard from the Castle, and hour after hour was struck from the clock of St. Giles while Bobby watched beside his master.

All night Auld Jock was “aff ’is heid.”  When he muttered in his sleep or cried out in the delirium of fever, the little dog put his paws upon the bed-rail.  He scratched on it and begged to be lifted to where he could comfort his master, for the shelf was set too high for him to climb into the bed.  Unable to get his master’s attention, he licked the hot hand that hung over the side.  Auld Jock lay still at last, not coughing any more, but breathing rapid, shallow breaths.  Just at dawn he turned his head and gazed in bewilderment at the alert and troubled little creature that was instantly upon the rail.  After a long time he recognized the dog and patted the shaggy little head.  Feeling around the bed, he found the other bun and dropped it on the floor.  Presently he said, between strangled breaths: 

“Puir—­Bobby!  Gang—­awa’—­hame—­laddie.”

After that it was suddenly very still in the brightening room.  Bobby gazed and gazed at his master—­one long, heartbroken look, then dropped to all fours and stood trembling.  Without another look he stretched himself upon the hearthstone below the bed.

Morning and evening footsteps went down and came up on the stairs.  Throughout the day—­the babel of crowded tenement strife; the crying of fishwives and fagot-venders in the court; the striking of the hours; the boom of the time gun and sweet clamor of music bells; the failing of the light and the soaring note of the bugle—­he watched motionless beside his master.

Very late at night shuffling footsteps came up the stairs.  The “auld wifie” kept a sharp eye on the comings and goings of her lodgers.  It was “no’ canny” that this old man, with a cauld in his chest, had gone up full two days before and had not come down again.  To bitter complaints of his coughing and of his strange talking to himself she gave scant attention, but foul play was done often enough in these dens to make her uneasy.  She had no desire to have the Burgh police coming about and interfering with her business.  She knocked sharply on the door and called: