forest of table and chair and human legs he made his way to the
back, to find a soldier from the Castle, in smart red coat and
polished boots, lounging in Auld Jock's inglenook.

Bobby stood stock still for a shocked instant. Then he howled
dismally and bolted for the door. Mr. John Traill, the
smooth-shaven, hatchet-faced proprietor, standing midway in
shirtsleeves and white apron, caught the flying terrier between
his legs and gave him a friendly clap on the side.

"Did you come by your ainsel' with a farthing in your silky-purse
ear to buy a bone, Bobby? Whaur's Auld Jock?"

A fear may be crowded back into the mind and stoutly denied so
long as it is not named. At the good landlord's very natural
question "Whaur's Auld Jock?" there was the shape of the little
dog's fear that he had lost his master. With a whimpering cry he
struggled free. Out of the door he went, like a shot. He tumbled
down the steep curve and doubled on his tracks around the
market-place.

At his onslaught, the sparrows rose like brown leaves on a gust
of wind, and drifted down again. A cold mist veiled the Castle
heights. From the stone crown of the ancient Cathedral of St.
Giles, on High Street, floated the melody of "The Bluebells of
Scotland." No day was too bleak for bell-ringer McLeod to climb
the shaking ladder in the windy tower and play the music bells
during the hour that Edinburgh dined. Bobby forgot to dine that
day, first in his distracted search, and then in his joy of
finding his master.