The angry caretaker shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Ye can see it, gin ye stand by, in juist one meenit.  Fecht as he may, it wull soon be ower.”

Mr. Traill laughed easily, and ventured the opinion that Mr. Brown’s bark was worse than his bite.  As he went through the gateway he could not resist calling back a challenge:  “I daur you to do it.”

Mr. Brown locked the gate, went sulkily into the lodge, lighted his cutty pipe, and smoked it furiously.  He read a Psalm with deliberation, poked up an already bright fire, and glowered at his placid gude wife.  It was not to be borne—­to be defied by a ten-inch-high terrier, and dared, by a man a third under his own weight, to do his duty.  After an hour or so he worked himself up to the point of going out and slamming the door.

At eight o’clock Mr. Traill found Bobby on the pavement outside the locked gate.  He was not sorry that the fortunes of unequal battle had thrown the faithful little dog on his hospitality.  Bobby begged piteously to be put inside, but he seemed to understand at last that the gate was too high for Mr. Traill to drop him over.  He followed the landlord up to the restaurant willingly.  He may have thought this champion had another solution of the difficulty, for when he saw the man settle comfortably in a chair he refused to lie on the hearth.  He ran to the door and back, and begged and whined to be let out.  For a long time he stood dejectedly.  He was not sullen, for he ate a light supper and thanked his host with much polite wagging, and he even allowed himself to be petted.  Suddenly he thought of something, trotted briskly off to a corner and crouched there.

Mr. Traill watched the attractive little creature with interest and growing affection.  Very likely he indulged in a day-dream that, perhaps, the tenant of Cauldbrae farm could be induced to part with Bobby for a consideration, and that he himself could win the dog to transfer his love from a cold grave to a warm hearth.

With a spring the rat was captured.  A jerk of the long head and there was proof of Bobby’s prowess to lay at his good friend’s feet.  Made much of, and in a position to ask fresh favors, the little dog was off to the door with cheerful, staccato barks.  His reasoning was as plain as print:  “I hae done ye a service, noo tak’ me back to the kirkyaird.”

Mr. Traill talked to him as he might have reasoned with a bright bairn.  Bobby listened patiently, but remained of the same mind.  At last he moved away, disappointed in this human person, discouraged, but undefeated in his purpose.  He lay down by the door.  Mr. Traill watched him, for if any chance late comer opened the door the masterless little dog would be out into the perils of the street.  Bobby knew what doors were for and, very likely, expected. some such release.  He waited a long time patiently.  Then he began to run back and forth.  He put his paws upon Mr. Traill and whimpered and cried.  Finally he howled.