For, all at once, in the very strangest place, in the very
strangest way, Bobby came upon Auld Jock. A rat scurrying out
from a foul and narrow passage that gave to the rear of the
White Hart Inn, pointed the little dog to a nook hitherto
undiscovered by his curious nose. Hidden away between the noisy
tavern and the grim, island crag was the old cock-fighting pit of
a ruder day. There, in a broken-down carrier's cart, abandoned
among the nameless abominations of publichouse refuse, Auld Jock
lay huddled in his greatcoat of hodden gray and his shepherd's
plaid. On a bundle of clothing tied in a tartan kerchief for a
pillow, he lay very still and breathing heavily.

Bobby barked as if he would burst his lungs. He barked so long,
so loud, and so furiously, running 'round and 'round the cart and
under it and yelping at every turn, that a slatternly scullery
maid opened a door and angrily bade him "no' to deave folk wi'
'is blatterin'." Auld Jock she did not see at all in the murky
pit or, if she saw him, thought him some drunken foreign sailor
from Leith harbor. When she went in, she slammed the door and
lighted the gas.

Whether from some instinct of protection of his helpless master
in that foul and hostile place, or because barking had proved to
be of no use Bobby sat back on his haunches and considered this
strange, disquieting thing. It was not like Auld Jock to sleep in
the daytime, or so soundly, at any time, that barking would not
awaken him. A clever and resourceful dog, Bobby crouched back
against the farthest wall, took a running leap to the top of the
low boots, dug his claws into the stout, home knitted stockings,