Sleep alone goes far to revive a little dog, and fasting sharpens the wits.Bobby was so tired that he slept soundly, but so hungry that he woke early, and instantly alert to his situation.It was so very early of a dark winter morning that not even the sparrows were out foraging in the kirkyard for dry seeds.The drum and bugle had not been sounded from the Castle when the milk and dustman's carts began to clatter over the frozen streets.With the first hint of dawn stout fishwives, who had tramped all the way in from the piers of Newhaven with heavily laden creels on their heads, were lustily crying their "caller herrin'." Soon fagot men began to call up the courts of tenements, where fuel was bought by the scant bundle: "Are ye cauld?"Many a human waif in the tall buildings about the lower end of Greyfriars kirkyard was cold, even in bed, but, in his thick underjacket of fleece, Bobby was as warm as a plate of breakfast toast.With a vigorous shaking he broke and scattered the crust of snow that burdened his shaggy thatch.Then he lay down on the grave again, with his nose on his paws.Urgent matters occupied the little dog's mind.To deal with these affairs he had the long head of the canniest Scot, wide and high between.the ears, and a muzzle as determined as a little steel trap.Small and forlorn as he was, courage, resource and purpose marked him.
As soon as the door of the caretaker's lodge opened he would have to creep under the fallen slab again.To lie in such a cramped position, hour after hour, day after day, was enough to break the spirit of any warm blooded creature that lives.It was an exquisite form of torture not long to be endured.And to get his single meal a day at Mr.Traill's place Bobby had to watch for the chance opening of the wicket to slip in and out like a thief.
The furtive life is not only perilous, it outrages every feeling of an honest dog.It is hard for him to live at all without the approval and the cordial consent of men.The human order hostile, he quickly loses his self-respect and drops to the pariah class.
Already wee Bobby had the look of the neglected.His pretty coat was dirty and unkempt.In his run across country, leaves, twigs and burrs had become entangled in his long hair, and his legs and underparts were caked with mire.
Instinctively any dog struggles to escape the fate of the outcast.By every art he possesses he ingratiates himself with men.One that has his usefulness in the human scheme of things often is able to make his own terms with life, to win the niche of his choice.Bobby's one talent that was of practical value to society was his hunting instinct for every small animal that burrows and prowls and takes toll of men's labor.In Greyfriars kirkyard was work to be done that he could do.For quite three centuries rats and mice had multiplied in this old sanctuary garden from which cats were chased and dogs excluded.Every breeze that blew carried challenges to Bobby's offended nose.
Now, in the crisp gray dawn, a big rat came out into the open and darted here and there over the powdering of dry snow that frosted the kirkyard.
A leap, as if released from a spring, and Bobby captured it.Asnap of his long muzzle, a jerk of his stoutly set head, and the victim hung limp from his grip.And he followed another deeply seated instinct when he carried the slain to Auld Jock's grave.
Trophies of the chase were always to be laid at the feet of the master.
"Gude dog! eh, but ye're a bonny wee fechter!" Auld Jock had always said after such an exploit; and Bobby had been petted and praised until he nearly wagged his crested tail off with happiness and pride.Then he had been given some choice tidbit of food as a reward for his prowess.The farmer of Cauldbrae had on such occasions admitted that Bobby might be of use about barn and dairy, and Mr.Traill had commended his capture of prowlers in the dining-room.But Bobby was "ower young" and had not been "put to the vermin" as a definite business in life.He caught a rat, now and then, as he chased rabbits, merely as a diversion.When he had caught this one he lay down again.But after a time he got up deliberately and trotted down to the encircling line of old courtyarded tombs.There were nooks and crannies between and behind these along the wall into which the caretaker could not penetrate with sickle, rake and spade, that formed sheltered runways for rodents.
A long, low, weasel-like dog that could flatten himself on the ground, Bobby squeezed between railings and pedestals, scrambled over fallen fragments of sculptured urns, trumpets, angels'
wings, altars, skull and cross-bones, and Latin inscribed scrolls.He went on his stomach under holly and laurel shrubs, burdocks,thistles, and tangled, dead vines.Here and there he lay in such rubbish as motionless as the effigies careen on marble biers.With the growing light grew the heap of the slain on Auld Jock's grave.
Having done his best, Bobby lay down again, worse in appearance than before, but with a stouter heart.He did not stir, although the shadows fled, the sepulchers stood up around the field of snow, and slabs and shafts camped in ranks on the slope.Smoke began to curl up from high, clustered chimney-pots; shutters were opened, and scantily clad women had hurried errands on decaying gallery and reeling stairway.Suddenly the Castle turrets were gilded with pale sunshine, and all the little cells in the tall, old houses hummed and buzzed and clacked with life.The University bell called scattered students to morning prayers.
Pinched and elfish faces of children appeared at the windows overlooking the kirkyard.The sparrows had instant news of that, and the little winged beggars fluttered up to the lintels of certain deep-set casements, where ill-fed bairns scattered breakfasts of crumbs.
