At his onslaught, the sparrows rose like brown leaves on a gust of wind, and drifted down again.  A cold mist veiled the Castle heights.  From the stone crown of the ancient Cathedral of St. Giles, on High Street, floated the melody of “The Bluebells of Scotland.”  No day was too bleak for bell-ringer McLeod to climb the shaking ladder in the windy tower and play the music bells during the hour that Edinburgh dined.  Bobby forgot to dine that day, first in his distracted search, and then in his joy of finding his master.

For, all at once, in the very strangest place, in the very strangest way, Bobby came upon Auld Jock.  A rat scurrying out from a foul and narrow passage that gave to the rear of the White Hart Inn, pointed the little dog to a nook hitherto undiscovered by his curious nose.  Hidden away between the noisy tavern and the grim, island crag was the old cock-fighting pit of a ruder day.  There, in a broken-down carrier’s cart, abandoned among the nameless abominations of publichouse refuse, Auld Jock lay huddled in his greatcoat of hodden gray and his shepherd’s plaid.  On a bundle of clothing tied in a tartan kerchief for a pillow, he lay very still and breathing heavily.

Bobby barked as if he would burst his lungs.  He barked so long, so loud, and so furiously, running ’round and ’round the cart and under it and yelping at every turn, that a slatternly scullery maid opened a door and angrily bade him “no’ to deave folk wi’ ’is blatterin’.”  Auld Jock she did not see at all in the murky pit or, if she saw him, thought him some drunken foreign sailor from Leith harbor.  When she went in, she slammed the door and lighted the gas.

Whether from some instinct of protection of his helpless master in that foul and hostile place, or because barking had proved to be of no use Bobby sat back on his haunches and considered this strange, disquieting thing.  It was not like Auld Jock to sleep in the daytime, or so soundly, at any time, that barking would not awaken him.  A clever and resourceful dog, Bobby crouched back against the farthest wall, took a running leap to the top of the low boots, dug his claws into the stout, home knitted stockings, and scrambled up over Auld Jock’s legs into the cart.  In an instant he poked his little black mop of a wet muzzle into his master’s face and barked once, sharply, in his ear.

To Bobby’s delight Auld Jock sat up and blinked his eyes.  The old eyes were brighter, the grizzled face redder than was natural, but such matters were quite outside of the little dog’s ken.  It was a dazed moment before the man remembered that Bobby should not be there.  He frowned down at the excited little creature, who was wagging satisfaction from his nose-tip to the end of his crested tail, in a puzzled effort to remember why.

“Eh, Bobby!” His tone was one of vague reproof.  “Nae doot ye’re fair satisfied wi’ yer ainsel’.”