“Auld Jock!”

Bobby trotted over to the door and stood looking at it.  In such a strait he would naturally have welcomed the visitor, scratching on the panel, and crying to any human body without to come in and see what had befallen his master.  But Auld Jock had bade him “haud ’is gab” there, as in Greyfriars kirkyard.  So he held to loyal silence, although the knocking and shaking of the latch was insistent and the lodgers were astir.  The voice of the old woman was shrill with alarm.

“Auld Jock, can ye no’ wauken?” And, after a moment, in which the unlatched casement window within could be heard creaking on its hinges in the chill breeze, there was a hushed and frightened question: 

“Are ye deid?”

The footsteps fled down the stairs, and Bobby was left to watch through the long hours of darkness.

Very early in the morning the flimsy door was quietly forced by authority.  The first man who entered—­an officer of the Crown from the sheriff’s court on the bridge—­took off his hat to the majesty that dominated that bare cell.  The Cowgate region presented many a startling contrast, but such a one as this must seldom have been seen.  The classic fireplace, and the motionless figure and peaceful face of the pious old shepherd within it, had the dignity and beauty of some monumental tomb and carved effigy in old Greyfriars kirkyard.  Only less strange was the contrast between the marks of poverty and toil on the dead man and the dainty grace of the little fluff of a dog that mourned him.

No such men as these—­officers of her Majesty the Queen, Burgh policemen, and learned doctors from the Royal Infirmary—­had ever been aware of Auld Jock, living.  Dead, and no’ needing them any more, they stood guard over him, and inquired sternly as to the manner in which he had died.  There was a hysterical breath of relief from the crowd of lodgers and tenants when the little pile of coins was found on the Bible.  There had been no foul play.  Auld Jock had died of heart failure, from pneumonia and worn-out old age.

“There’s eneugh,” a Burgh policeman said when the money was counted.  He meant much the same thing Auld Jock himself had meant.  There was enough to save him from the last indignity a life of useful labor can thrust upon the honest poor—­pauper burial.  But when inquiries were made for the name and the friends of this old man there appeared to be only “Auld Jock” to enter into the record, and a little dog to follow the body to the grave.  It was a Bible reader who chanced to come in from the Medical Mission in the Cowgate who thought to look in the fly-leaf of Auld Jock’s Bible.

“His name is John Gray.”

He laid the worn little book on Auld Jock’s breast and crossed the work-scarred hands upon it.  “It’s something by the ordinar’ to find a gude auld country body in such a foul place.”  He stooped and patted Bobby, and noted the bun, untouched, upon the floor.  Turning to a wild elf of a barefooted child in the crowd he spoke to her.  “Would you share your gude brose with the bit dog, lassie?”