"Oh, Maister Traill, the bittie dog's deid!""Havers, lassie! I'm ashamed o' ye for a fulish bairn.Bobby's no' deid.Nae doot he's amang the stanes i' the kirkyaird.He's aye scramblin' aboot for vermin an' pussies, an' may hae hurt himsel', an' ye a' ken the bonny wee wadna cry oot i' the kirkyaird.Noo, get to wark, an' dinna stand there greetin' an' waggin' yer tongues.The mithers an' bairns maun juist gang hame an' stap their havers, an' licht a' the candles an' cruisey lamps i' their hames, an' set them i' the windows aboon the kirkyaird.Greyfriars is murky by the ordinar', an' ye couldna find a coo there wi'oot the lichts."The crowd suddenly melted away, so eager were they all to have a hand in helping to find the community pet.Then Mr.Traill turned to the boys.
"Hoo mony o' ye laddies hae the bull's-eye lanterns?"Ah! not many in the old buildings around the kirkyard.These japanned tin aids to dark adventures on the golf links on autumn nights cost a sixpence and consumed candles.Geordie Ross and Sandy McGregor, coming up arm in arm, knew of other students and clerks who still had these cherished toys of boyhood.
With these heroes in the lead a score or more of laddies swarmed into the kirkyard.
The tenements were lighted up as they had not been since nobles held routs and balls there.Enough candles and oil were going up in smoke to pay for wee Bobby's license all over again, and enough love shone in pallid little faces that peered into the dusk to light the darkest corner in the heart of the world.Rays from the bull's-eyes were thrown into every nook and cranny.Very small laddies insinuated themselves into the narrowest places.They climbed upon high vaults and let themselves down in last year's burdocks and tangled vines.It was all done in silence, only Mr.Traill speaking at all.He went everywhere with the searchers, and called:
"Whaur are ye, Bobby? Come awa' oot, laddie!"But no gleaming ghost of a tousled dog was conjured by the voice of affection.
The tiniest scratching or lowest moaning could have been heard, for the warm spring evening was very still, and there were, as yet, few leaves to rustle.
Sleepy birds complained at being disturbed on their perches, and rodents could be heard scampering along their runways.The entire kirkyard was explored, then the interior of the two kirks.Mr.Traill went up to the lodge for the keys, saying, optimistically, that a sexton might unwittingly have locked Bobby in.Young men with lanterns went through the courts of the tenements, around the Grassmarket, and under the arches of the bridge.Laddies dropped from the wall and hunted over Heriot's Hospital grounds to Lauriston market.
Tammy, poignantly conscious of being of no practical use, sat on Auld Jock's grave, firm in the conviction that Bobby would return to that spot his ainsel'
And Ailie, being only a maid, whose portion it was to wait and weep, lay across the window-sill, on the pediment of the tomb, a limp little figure of woe.
Mr.Traill's heart was full of misgiving.Nothing but death or stone walls could keep that little creature from this beloved grave.But, in thinking of stone walls, he never once thought of the Castle.Away over to the east, in Broughton market, when the garrison marched away and at Lauriston when they returned, Mr.Traill did not know that the soldiers had been out of the city.
Busy in the lodge Mistress Jeanie had not seen them go by the kirkyard, and no one else, except Mr.Brown, knew the fascination that military uniforms, marching and music had for wee Bobby.A fog began to drift in from the sea.
Suddenly the grass was sheeted and the tombs blurred.A curtain of gauze seemed to be hung before the lighted tenements.The Castle head vanished, and the sounds of the drum and bugle of the tattoo came down muffled, as if through layers of wool.The lights of the bull's-eyes were ruddy discs that cast no rays.Then these were smeared out to phosphorescent glows, like the "spunkies" that everybody in Scotland knew came out to dance in old kirkyards.
It was no' canny.In the smother of the fog some of the little boys were lost, and cried out.Mr.Traill got them up to the gate and sent them home in bands, under the escort of the students.Mistress Jeanie was out by the wicket.Mr.
Brown was asleep, and she "couldna thole it to sit there snug." When a fog-horn moaned from the Firth she broke into sobbing.Mr.Traill comforted her as best he could by telling her a dozen plans for the morning.By feeling along the wall he got her to the lodge, and himself up to his cozy dining-rooms.
For the first time since Queen Mary the gate of the historic garden of the Greyfriars was left on the latch.And it was so that a little dog, coming home in the night might not be shut out.
