The badgered landlord turned upon him and answered at length, after the elaborate manner of a minister who lays his sermon off in sections,
“First: he's no' my dog to sell. Second: he's a dog of rare discreemination, and is no' like to tak' you for a master. Third: you soldiers aye have with you a special brand of shulling-a-day impudence. And, fourth and last, my brither: I'm no' needing your siller, and I can manage to do fair weel without your conversation.”
As this bombardment proceeded, the sergeant's jaw dropped. When it was finished he laughed heartily and slapped his knee. “Man, come an' brak bread wi' me or I'll hae to brak yer stiff neck.”
A truce was declared over a cozy pot of tea, and the two became at least temporary friends. It was such a day that the landlord would have gossiped with a gaol bird; and when a soldier who has seen years of service, much of it in strange lands, once admits a shopkeeper to equality, he can be affable and entertaining “by the ordinar'.” Mr. Traill sketched Bobby's story broadly, and to a sympathetic listener; and the soldier told the landlord of the animals that had lived and died in the Castle.
Parrots and monkeys and strange dogs and cats had been brought there by regiments returning from foreign countries and colonies. But most of the pets had been native dogs—collies, spaniels and terriers, and animals of mixed breeds and of no breed at all, but just good dogs. No one knew when the custom began, but there was an old and well-filled cemetery for the Castle pets. When a dog died a little stone was set up, with the name of the animal and the regiment to which it had belonged on it. Soldiers often went there among the tiny mounds and told stories of the virtues and taking ways of old favorites. And visitors read the names of Flora and Guy and Dandie, of Prince Charlie and Rob Roy, of Jeanie and Bruce and Wattie. It was a merry life for a dog in the Castle. He was petted and spoiled by homesick men, and when he died there were a thousand mourners at his funeral.
“Put it to the bit Skye noo. If he tak's the Queen's shullin' he belongs to the army.” The sergeant flipped a coin before Bobby, who was wagging his tail and sniffing at the military boots with his ever lively interest in soldiers.
He looked up at the tossed coin indifferently, and when it fell to the floor he let it lie. “Siller” has no meaning to a dog. His love can be purchased with nothing less than his chosen master's heart. The soldier sighed at Bobby's indifference. He introduced himself as Sergeant Scott, of the Royal Engineers, detailed from headquarters to direct the work in the Castle crafts shops. Engineers rank high in pay and in consideration, and it was no ordinary Jack of all trades who had expert knowledge of so many skilled handicrafts. Mr. Traill's respect and liking for the man increased with the passing moments.
As the sergeant departed he warned Mr. Traill, laughingly, that he meant to kidnap Bobby the very first chance he got. The Castle pet had died, and Bobby was altogether too good a dog to be wasted on a moldy auld kirkyard and thrown on a dust-cart when he came to die.
Mr. Traill resented the imputation. “He'll no' be thrown on a dust-cart!”
The door was shut on the mocking retort “Hoo do ye ken he wullna?”