Auld Jock lived again in that recital.  Glenormiston, coming from the country of the Ettrick shepherd, knew such lonely figures, and the pathos of old age and waning powers that drove them in to the poor quarters of towns.  There was pictured the stormy night and the simple old man who sought food and shelter, with the devoted little dog that “wasna ’is ain.”  Sick unto death he was, and full of ignorant prejudices and fears that needed wise handling.  And there was the well-meaning landlord’s blunder, humbly confessed, and the obscure and tragic result of it, in a foul and swarming rookery “juist aff the Coogate.”

“Man, it was Bobby that told me of his master’s condition.  He begged me to help Auld Jock, and what did I do but let my fule tongue wag about doctors.  I nae more than turned my back than the auld body was awa’ to his meeserable death.  It has aye eased my conscience a bit to feed the dog.”

“That’s not the only reason why you have fed him.”  There was a twinkle in the Lord Provost’s eye, and Mr. Traill blushed.

“Weel, I’ll admit to you that I’m fair fulish about Bobby.  Man, I’ve courted that sma’ terrier for eight and a half years.  He’s as polite and friendly as the deil, but he’ll have naething to do with me or with onybody.  I wonder the intelligent bit doesn’t bite me for the ill turn I did his master.”

Then there was the story of Bobby’s devotion to Auld Jock’s memory to be told—­the days when he faced starvation rather than desert that grave, the days when he lay cramped under the fallen table-tomb, and his repeated, dramatic escapes from the Pentland farm.  His never broken silence in the kirkyard was only to be explained by the unforgotten orders of his dead master.  His intelligent effort to make himself useful to the caretaker had won indulgence.  His ready obedience, good temper, high spirits and friendliness had made him the special pet of the tenement children and the Heriot laddies.  At the very last Mr. Traill repeated the talk he had had with the non-commissioned officer from the Castle, and confessed his own fear of some forlorn end for Bobby.  It was true he was nobody’s dog; and he was fascinated by soldiers and military music, and so, perhaps—­

“I’ll no’ be reconciled to parting—­Eh, man, that’s what Auld Jock himsel’ said when he was telling me that the bit dog must be returned to the sheep-farm:  ‘It wull be sair partin’.’” Tears stood in the unashamed landlord’s eyes.

Glenormiston was pulling Bobby’s silkily fringed ears thoughtfully.  Through all this talk about his dead master the little dog had not stirred.  For the second time that day Bobby’s veil was pushed back, first by the most unfortunate laddie in the decaying tenements about Greyfriars, and now by the Lord Provost of the ancient royal burgh and capital of Scotland.  And both made the same discovery.  Deep-brown pools of love, young Bobby’s eyes had dwelt upon Auld Jock.  Pools of sad memories they were now, looking out wistfully and patiently upon a masterless world.