a little stone was set up, with the name of the animal and the regiment to which it had belonged on it.  Soldiers often went there among the tiny mounds and told stories of the virtues and taking ways of old favorites.  And visitors read the names of Flora and Guy and Dandie, of Prince Charlie and Rob Roy, of Jeanie and Bruce and Wattie.  It was a merry life for a dog in the Castle.  He was petted and spoiled by homesick men, and when he died there were a thousand mourners at his funeral.

“Put it to the bit Skye noo.  If he tak’s the Queen’s shullin’ he belongs to the army.”  The sergeant flipped a coin before Bobby, who was wagging his tail and sniffing at the military boots with his ever lively interest in soldiers.

He looked up at the tossed coin indifferently, and when it fell to the floor he let it lie.  “Siller” has no meaning to a dog.  His love can be purchased with nothing less than his chosen master’s heart.  The soldier sighed at Bobby’s indifference.  He introduced himself as Sergeant Scott, of the Royal Engineers, detailed from headquarters to direct the work in the Castle crafts shops.  Engineers rank high in pay and in consideration, and it was no ordinary Jack of all trades who had expert knowledge of so many skilled handicrafts.  Mr. Traill’s respect and liking for the man increased with the passing moments.

As the sergeant departed he warned Mr. Traill, laughingly, that he meant to kidnap Bobby the very first chance he got.  The Castle pet had died, and Bobby was altogether too good a dog to be wasted on a moldy auld kirkyard and thrown on a dust-cart when he came to die.

Mr. Traill resented the imputation.  “He’ll no’ be thrown on a dust-cart!”

The door was shut on the mocking retort “Hoo do ye ken he wullna?”

And there was food for gloomy reflection.  The landlord could not know, in truth, what Bobby’s ultimate fate might be.  But little over nine years of age, he should live only five or six years longer at most.  Of his friends, Mr. Brown was ill and aging, and might have to give place to a younger man.  He himself was in his prime, but he could not be certain of living longer than this hardy little dog.  For the first time he realized the truth of Dr. Lee’s saying that everybody’s dog was nobody’s dog.  The tenement children held Bobby in a sort of community affection.  He was the special pet of the Heriot laddies, but a class was sent into the world every year and was scattered far.  Not one of all the hundreds of bairns who had known and loved this little dog could give him any real care or protection.

For the rest, Bobby had remained almost unknown.  Many of the congregations of old and new Greyfriars had never seen or heard of him.  When strangers were about he seemed to prefer lying in his retreat under the fallen tomb.  His Sunday-afternoon naps he usually took in the lodge kitchen.  And so, it might very well happen that his old age would be friendless, that he would come to some forlorn end, and be carried away on the dustman’s cart.  It might, indeed, be better for him to end his days in love and honor in the Castle.  But to this solution of the problem Mr. Traill himself was not reconciled.