By the time Mr. Traill was called to answer to the charge a number of curious idlers had gathered on the back benches.  He admitted his name and address, but denied that he either owned or was harboring a dog.  The magistrate fixed a cold eye upon him, and asked if he meant to contradict the testimony of the officer.

“Nae, your Honor; and he might have seen the same thing ony week-day of the past eight and a half years.  But the bit terrier is no’ my ain dog.”  Suddenly, the memory of the stormy night, the sick old man and the pathos of his renunciation of the only beating heart in the world that loved him—­“Bobby isna ma ain dog!” swept over the remorseful landlord.  He was filled with a fierce championship of the wee Highlander, whose loyalty to that dead master had brought him to this strait.

To the magistrate Mr. Traill’s tossed-up head had the effect of defiance, and brought a sharp rebuke.  “Don’t split hairs, Mr. Traill.  You are wasting the time of the court.  You admit feeding the dog.  Who is his master and where does he sleep?”

“His master is in his grave in auld Greyfriars kirkyard, and the dog has aye slept there on the mound.”

The magistrate leaned over his desk.  “Man, no dog could sleep in the open for one winter in this climate.  Are you fond of romancing, Mr. Traill?”

“No’ so overfond, your Honor.  The dog is of the subarctic breed of Skye terriers, the kind with a thick under-jacket of fleece, and a weather thatch that turns rain like a crofter’s cottage roof.”

“There should be witnesses to such an extraordinary story.  The dog could not have lived in this strictly guarded churchyard without the consent of those in authority.”  The magistrate was plainly annoyed and skeptical, and Mr. Traill felt the sting of it.

“Ay, the caretaker has been his gude friend, but Mr. Brown is ill of rheumatism, and can no’ come out.  Nae doubt, if necessary, his deposeetion could be tak’n.  Permission for the bit dog to live in the kirkyard was given by the meenister of Greyfriars auld kirk, but Doctor Lee is in failing health and has gone to the south of France.  The tenement children and the Heriot laddies have aye made a pet of Bobby, but they would no’ be competent witnesses.”

“You should have counsel.  There are some legal difficulties here.”

“I’m no’ needing a lawyer.  The law in sic a matter can no’ be so complicated, and I have a tongue in my ain head that has aye served me, your Honor.”  The magistrate smiled, and the spectators moved to the nearer benches to enjoy this racy man.  The room began to fill by that kind of telepathy that causes crowds to gather around the human drama.  One man stood, unnoticed, in the doorway.  Mr. Traill went on, quietly:  “If the court permits me to do so, I shall be glad to pay for Bobby’s license, but I’m thinking that carries responsibeelity for the bit dog.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Traill.  You would have to assume responsibility.  Masterless dogs have become a serious nuisance in the city.”