There were no blackbirds in the kirkyard, and Bobby understood the signal.  He scampered up at once and dashed around the kirk, all excitement, for he had had many adventures with the Heriot boys at skating and hockey on Duddingston Lock in the winter, and tramps over the country and out to Leith harbor in the spring.  The laddies prowled along the upper wall of the kirks, opened and shut the wicket, to give the caretaker the idea that they had come in decorously by the gate, and went down to ask him, with due respect and humility, if they could take Bobby out for the afternoon.  They were going to mark the places where wild flowers might be had, to decorate “Jinglin’ Geordie’s” portrait, statue and tomb at the school on Founder’s Day.  Mr. Brown considered them with a glower that made the boys nudge each other knowingly.  “Saturday isna the day for ’im to be gaen aboot.  He aye has a washin’ an’ a groomin’ to mak’ ‘im fit for the Sabbath.  An’, by the leuk o’ ye, ye’d be nane the waur for soap an’ water yer ainsel’s.”

“We’ll gie ’im ‘is washin’ an’ combin’ the nicht,” they volunteered, eagerly.

“Weel, noo, he wullna hae ’is dinner till the time-gun.”

Neither would they.  At that, annoyed by their persistence, Mr. Brown denied authority.

“Ye ken weel he isna ma dog.  Ye’ll hae to gang up an’ spier Maister Traill.  He’s fair daft aboot the gude-for-naethin’ tyke.”

This was understood as permission.  As the boys ran up to the gate, with Bobby at their heels, Mr. Brown called after them:  “Ye fetch ‘im hame wi’ the sunset bugle, an’ gin ye teach ‘im ony o’ yer unmannerly ways I’ll tak’ a stick to yer breeks.”

When they returned to Mr. Traill’s place at two o’clock the landlord stood in shirt-sleeves and apron in the open doorway with Bobby, the little dog gripping a mutton shank in his mouth.

“Bobby must tak’ his bone down first and hide it awa’.  The Sabbath in a kirkyard is a dull day for a wee dog, so he aye gets a catechism of a bone to mumble over.”

’The landlord sighed in open envy when the laddies and the little dog tumbled down the Row to the Grassmarket on their gypsying.  His eyes sought out the glimpse of green country on the dome of Arthur’s Seat, that loomed beyond the University towers to the east.  There are times when the heart of a boy goes ill with the sordid duties of the man.

Straight down the length of the empty market the laddies ran, through the crooked, fascinating haunt of horses and jockeys in the street of King’s Stables, then northward along the fronts of quaint little handicrafts shops that skirted Castle Crag.  By turning westward into Queensferry Street a very few minutes would have brought them to a bit of buried country.  But every expedition of Edinburgh lads of spirit of that day was properly begun with challenges to scale Castle Rock from the valley park of Princes Street Gardens on the north.