And with that wee Bobby was set upon the polished table, his own silver image glimmering among the reflections of candles and old plate.  He kept close under the hand of his protector, but waiting for the moment favorable to his appeal.  The company crowded around with eager interest, while the man of expert knowledge and love of dogs talked about Bobby.

“You see he’s a well-knit little rascal, long and low, hardy and strong.  His ancestors were bred for bolting foxes and wildcats among the rocky headlands of the subarctic islands.  The intelligence, courage and devotion of dogs of this breed can scarcely be overstated.  There is some far away crossing here that gives this one a greater beauty and grace and more engaging manners, making him a ‘sport’ among rough farm dogs—­but look at the length and strength of the muzzle.  He’s as determined as the deil.  You would have to break his neck before you could break his purpose.  For love of his master he would starve, or he would leap to his death without an instant’s hesitation.”

All this time the man had been stroking Bobby’s head and neck.  Now, feeling the collar under the thatch, he slipped it out and brought the brass plate up to the light.

“Propose your toast to Greyfriars Bobby, Captain.  His story is vouched for by no less a person than the Lord Provost.  The ‘bittie’ dog seems to have won a sort of canine Victoria Cross.”

The toast was drunk standing, and, a cheer given.  The company pressed close to examine the collar and to shake Bobby’s lifted paw.  Then, thinking the moment had come, Bobby rose in the begging attitude, prostrated himself before them, and uttered a pleading cry.  His new friend assured him that he would be taken home.

“Bide a wee, Bobby.  Before he goes I want you all to see his beautiful eyes.  In most breeds of dogs with the veil you will find the hairs of the face discolored by tears, but the Skye terrier’s are not, and his eyes are living jewels, as sunny a brown as cairngorms in pebble brooches, but soft and deep and with an almost human intelligence.”

For the third time that day Bobby’s veil was pushed back.  One shocked look by this lover of dogs, and it was dropped.  “Get him back to that grave, man, or he’s like to die.  His eyes are just two cairngorms of grief.”

In the hush that fell upon the company the senior officer spoke sharply:  “Take him down at once, Sergeant.  The whole affair is most unfortunate, and you will please tender my apologies at the churchyard and the restaurant, as well as your own, and I will see the Lord Provost.”

The military salute was given to Bobby when he leaped from the table at the sergeant’s call:  “Come awa’, Bobby.  I’ll tak’ ye to Auld Jock i’ the kirkyaird noo.”