“It's maist michty!” he said.
Mr. Traill got to his feet briskly. “I'll just tak' the dog with me, Mr. Brown. On marketday I'll find the farmer that owns him and send him hame. As you say, a kirkyard's nae place for a dog to be living neglected. Come awa', Bobby.”
Bobby looked up, but, as he made no motion to obey, Mr. Traill stooped and lifted him.
From sheer surprise at this unexpected move the little dog lay still a moment on the man's arm. Then, with a lithe twist of his muscular body and a spring, he was on the ground, trembling, reproachful for the breach of faith, but braced for resistance.
“Eh, you're no' going?” Mr. Traill put his hands in his pockets, looked down at Bobby admiringly, and sighed. “There's a dog after my ain heart, and he'll have naething to do with me. He has a mind of his ain. I'll just have to be leaving him here the two days, Mr. Brown.”
“Ye wullna leave 'im! Ye'll tak' 'im wi' ye, or I'll hae to put 'im oot. Man, I couldna haud the place gin I brak the rules.”
“You—will—no'—put—the—wee—dog—out!” Mr. Traill shook a playful, emphatic finger under the big man's nose.
“Why wull I no'?”
“Because, man, you have a vera soft heart, and you canna deny it.” It was with a genial, confident smile that Mr. Traill made this terrible accusation.
“Ma heart's no' so saft as to permit a bit dog to scandalize the deid.”