Mr. Brown was sobered by this grim thought and then, in his turn, he confessed a slip to this tolerant man of the world.  “The wee deil o’ a sperity dog nipped me so I let oot an aith.”

“Ay, that’s Bobby.  He would no’ be afraid of onything with hide or hair on it.  Man, the Skye terriers go into dens of foxes and wildcats, and worry bulls till they tak’ to their heels.  And Bobby’s sagacious by the ordinar’.”  He thought intently for a moment, and then spoke naturally, and much as Auld Jock himself might have spoken to the dog.

“Whaur are ye, Bobby?  Come awa’ oot, laddie!”

Instantly the little dog stood before him like some conjured ghost.  He had slipped from under the slab on which they were sitting.  It lay so near the ground, and in such a mat of dead grass, that it had not occurred to them to look for him there.  He came up to Mr. Traill confidently, submitted to having his head patted, and looked pleadingly at the caretaker.  Then, thinking he had permission to do so, he lay down on the mound.  James Brown dropped his pipe.

“It’s maist michty!” he said.

Mr. Traill got to his feet briskly.  “I’ll just tak’ the dog with me, Mr. Brown.  On marketday I’ll find the farmer that owns him and send him hame.  As you say, a kirkyard’s nae place for a dog to be living neglected.  Come awa’, Bobby.”

Bobby looked up, but, as he made no motion to obey, Mr. Traill stooped and lifted him.

From sheer surprise at this unexpected move the little dog lay still a moment on the man’s arm.  Then, with a lithe twist of his muscular body and a spring, he was on the ground, trembling, reproachful for the breach of faith, but braced for resistance.

“Eh, you’re no’ going?” Mr. Traill put his hands in his pockets, looked down at Bobby admiringly, and sighed.  “There’s a dog after my ain heart, and he’ll have naething to do with me.  He has a mind of his ain.  I’ll just have to be leaving him here the two days, Mr. Brown.”

“Ye wullna leave ‘im!  Ye’ll tak’ ‘im wi’ ye, or I’ll hae to put ’im oot.  Man, I couldna haud the place gin I brak the rules.”

“You—­will—­no’—­put—­the—­wee—­dog—­out!” Mr. Traill shook a playful, emphatic finger under the big man’s nose.

“Why wull I no’?”

“Because, man, you have a vera soft heart, and you canna deny it.”  It was with a genial, confident smile that Mr. Traill made this terrible accusation.

“Ma heart’s no’ so saft as to permit a bit dog to scandalize the deid.”

“He’s been here two days, you no’ knowing it, and he has scandalized neither the dead nor the living.  He’s as leal as ony Covenanter here, and better conducted than mony a laird.  He’s no the quarrelsome kind, but, man, for a principle he’d fight like auld Clootie.”  Here the landlord’s heat gave way to pure enjoyment of the situation.  “Eh, I’d like to see you put him out.  It would be another Flodden Field.”