"We'll gie 'im 'is washin' an' combin' the nicht," they
volunteered, eagerly.

"Weel, noo, he wullna hae 'is dinner till the time-gun."

Neither would they. At that, annoyed by their persistence, Mr.
Brown denied authority.

"Ye ken weel he isna ma dog. Ye'll hae to gang up an' spier
Maister Traill. He's fair daft aboot the gude-for-naethin' tyke."

This was understood as permission. As the boys ran up to the
gate, with Bobby at their heels, Mr. Brown called after them: "Ye
fetch 'im hame wi' the sunset bugle, an' gin ye teach 'im ony o'
yer unmannerly ways I'll tak' a stick to yer breeks."

When they returned to Mr. Traill's place at two o'clock the
landlord stood in shirt-sleeves and apron in the open doorway
with Bobby, the little dog gripping a mutton shank in his mouth.

"Bobby must tak' his bone down first and hide it awa'. The
Sabbath in a kirkyard is a dull day for a wee dog, so he aye gets
a catechism of a bone to mumble over."

'The landlord sighed in open envy when the laddies and the little
dog tumbled down the Row to the Grassmarket on their gypsying.
His eyes sought out the glimpse of green country on the dome of
Arthur's Seat, that loomed beyond the University towers to the
east. There are times when the heart of a boy goes ill with the
sordid duties of the man.