A few days after their arrival they were all out together, when they happened to pass by a cottage, whose owner was famed for a very choice breed of dogs he kept.
"Let's peep over the wall into Sandy's yard, and see if he has any new puppies," said Johnny, and they all did so. No, there were no puppies to be seen, only an older dog which the boys remembered by the name of "Jock," and they called out to him.
But Jock took no heed. He was moving about the little enclosure in a queer, restless way, his head hanging down, his tail between his legs.
"Poor Jock," said Hughie, "how dull he looks! What a shame of Sandy to have gone out and left him alone!" For evidently there was no one at home in the cottage. Truth to tell, Sandy was off for the dog-doctor.
"Let's let him out," said Johnny, "and cheer him up a bit. He'll know us once he's out."
They did not hear a quick but shuffling step up the lane, nor a panting, quavering voice, "Bairns, bairns, dinna ye——"
It was Pig-Betty, just arrived that morning, and left by Sandy in charge of his cottage and the suspiciously suffering Jock—a charge she was quite able for.
"Let no one gang near him," Sandy had said; "and, my woman, just ye sit at the gate there till I'm back. I'll no be lang."
But, alas, the children had come round by the fields behind the cottage.