“Hae ye got the dog wi' ye?”
Mr. Train pointed to Bobby, deep in a blissful, after dinner nap under the settle.
The farmer breathed a sigh of relief, sat at a table, and ate a frugal meal of bread and cheese. As roughly dressed as Auld Jock, in a metal-buttoned greatcoat of hodden gray, a woolen bonnet, and the shepherd's twofold plaid, he was a different species of human being altogether. A long, lean, sinewy man of early middle age, he had a smooth-shaven, bony jaw, far-seeing gray eyes under furzy brows, and a shock of auburn hair. When he spoke, it was to give bits out of his own experience.
“Thae terriers are usefu' eneugh on an ordinar' fairm an' i' the toon to keep awa' the vermin, but I wadna gie a twa-penny-bit for ane o' them on a sheep-fairm. There's a wee lassie at Cauldbrae wha wants Bobby for a pet. It wasna richt for Auld Jock to win 'im awa' frae the bairn.”
Mr. Traill's hand was lifted in rebuke. “Speak nae ill, man; Auld Jock's dead.”
The farmer's ruddy face blanched and he dropped his knife. “He's no' buried so sane?”
“Ay, he's buried four days since in Greyfriars kirkyard, and Bobby has slept every night on the auld man's grave.”
“I'll juist tak' a leuk at the grave, moil, gin ye'll hae an ee on the dog.”
Mr. Traill cautioned him not to let the caretaker know that Bobby had continued to sleep in the kirkyard, after having been put out twice. The farmer was back in ten minutes, with a canny face that defied reading. He lighted his short Dublin pipe and smoked it out before he spoke again.
“It's ower grand for a puir auld shepherd body to be buried i' Greyfriars.”