It was a dreadful, dismal, heartbroken howl that echoed back from the walls.  He howled continuously, until the landlord, quite distracted, and concerned about the peace of his neighbors, thrust Bobby into the dark scullery at the rear, and bade him stop his noise.  For fully ten minutes the dog was quiet.  He was probably engaged in exploring his new quarters to find an outlet.  Then he began to howl again.  It was truly astonishing that so small a dog could make so large a noise.

A battle was on between the endurance of the man and the persistence of the terrier.  Mr. Traill was speculating on which was likely to be victor in the contest, when the front door was opened and the proprietor of the Book Hunter’s Stall put in a bare, bald head and the abstracted face of the book-worm that is mildly amused.

“Have you tak’n to a dog at your time o’ life, Mr. Traill?”

“Ay, man, and it would be all right if the bit dog would just tak’ to me.”

This pleasantry annoyed a good man who had small sense of humor, and he remarked testily “The barkin’ disturbs my customers so they canna read.”  The place was a resort for student laddies who had to be saving of candles.

“That’s no’ right,” the landlord admitted, sympathetically.  “‘Reading mak’th a full man.’  Eh, what a deeference to the warld if Robbie Burns had aye preferred a book to a bottle.”  The bookseller refused to be beguiled from his just cause of complaint into the flowery meads of literary reminiscences and speculations.

“You’ll stop that dog’s cleaving noise, Mr. Traill, or I’ll appeal to the Burgh police.”

The landlord returned a bland and child-like smile.  “You’d be weel within your legal rights to do it, neebor.”

The door was shut with such a business-like click that the situation suddenly became serious.  Bobby’s vocal powers, however, gave no signs of diminishing.  Mr. Traill quieted the dog for a few moments by letting him into the outer room, but the swiftness and energy with which he renewed his attacks on the door and on the man’s will showed plainly that the truce was only temporary.  He did not know what he meant to do except that he certainly had no intention of abandoning the little dog.  To gain time he put on his hat and coat, picked Bobby up, and opened the door.  The thought occurred to him to try the gate at the upper end of the kirkyard or, that failing, to get into Heriot’s Hospital grounds and put Bobby over the wall.  As he opened the door, however, he heard Geordie Ross’s whistle around the bend in Forest Road.

“Hey, laddie!” he called.  “Come awa’ in a meenit.”  When the sturdy boy was inside and the door safely shut, he began in his most guileless and persuasive tone:  “Would you like to earn a shulling, Geordie?”

“Ay, I would.  Gie it to me i’ pennies an’ ha’pennies, Maister Traill.  It seems mair, an’ mak’s a braw jinglin’ in a pocket.”

The price was paid and the tale told.  The quick championship of the boy was engaged for the gallant dog, and Geordie’s eyes sparkled at the prospect of dark adventure.  Bobby was on the floor listening, ears and eyes, brambly muzzle and feathered tail alert.  He listened with his whole, small, excited body, and hung on the answer to the momentous question.