“Bobby!” It was an excited breath of a word from the wide-eyed bairns.

“Bobby!  Havers!  A bittie dog wadna ken what to do wi’ keys.”

But Glenormiston was smiling, and these sharp witted slum bairns exchanged knowing glances.  “Whaur’s that sma’—?” He dived into this pocket and that, making a great pretense of searching, until he found a narrow band of new leather, with holes in one end and a stout buckle on the other, and riveted fast in the middle of it was a shining brass plate.  Tammy read the inscription aloud: 

GREYFRIARS BOBBY

    From the Lord Provost

      1867 Licensed

The wonderful collar was passed from hand to hand in awed silence.  The children stared and stared at this white-haired and bearded man, who “wasna grand ava,” but who talked to them as simply and kindly as a grandfaither.  He went right on talking to them in his homely way to put them at their ease, telling them that nobody at all, not even the bonny Queen, could be more than kind and well-behaving and faithful to duty.  Wee Bobby was all that, and so “Gin dizzens an’ dizzens o’ bairns war kennin’ ’im, an’ wad fetch seven shullin’s i’ their ha’pennies to a kirk, they could buy the richt for the braw doggie to be leevin’, the care o’ them a’, i’ the auld kirkyaird o’ Greyfriars.  An’ he maun hae the collar so the police wull ken ‘im an’ no’ ever tak’ ’im up for a puir, gaen-aboot dog.”

The children quite understood the responsibility they assumed, and their eyes shone with pride at the feeling that, if more fortunate friends failed, this little creature must never be allowed to go hungry.  And when he came to die—­oh, in a very, very few years, for they must remember that “a doggie isna as lang-leevin’ as folk”—­they must not forget that Bobby would not be permitted to be buried in the kirkyard.

“We’ll gie ’im a grand buryin’,” said Tammy.  “We’ll find a green brae by a babblin’ burn aneath a snawy hawthorn, whaur the throstle sings an’ the blackbird whustles.”  For the crippled laddie had never forgotten Mr. Traill’s description of a proper picnic, and that must, indeed, be a wee dog’s heaven.

“Ay, that wull do fair weel.”  The collar had come back to him by this time, and the Lord Provost buckled it securely about Bobby’s neck.

X.

The music of bagpipe, fife and drum brought them all out of Haddo’s Hole into High Street.  It was the hour of the morning drill, and the soldiers were marching out of the Castle.  From the front of St. Giles, that jutted into the steep thoroughfare, they could look up to where the street widened to the esplanade on Castle Hill.  Rank after rank of scarlet coats, swinging kilts and sporrans, and plumed bonnets appeared.  The sun flashed back from rifle barrels and bayonets and from countless bright buttons.