"Nae, Bobby; be a gude dog. Gang doon to the Coogate noo, an'
find Auld Jock."

Uttering no cry at all, Bobby gave the man such a woebegone look
and dropped to the pavement, with his long muzzle as far under
the wicket as he could thrust it, that the truth shot home to Mr.
Traill's understanding. He opened the gate. Bobby slipped through
and stood just inside a moment, and looking back as if he
expected his human friend to follow. Then, very suddenly, as the
door of the lodge opened and the caretaker came out, Bobby
disappeared in the shadow of the church.

A big-boned, slow-moving man of the best country house-gardener
type, serviceably dressed in corduroy, wool bonnet, and ribbed
stockings, James Brown collided with the small and wiry landlord,
to his own very great embarrassment.

"Eh, Maister Traill, ye gied me a turn. It's no' canny to be
proolin' aboot the kirkyaird i' the gloamin'."

"Whaur did the bit dog go, man?" demanded the peremptory
landlord.

"Dog? There's no' ony dog i' the kirkyaird. It isna permeetted.
Gin it's a pussy ye're needin', noo--"

But Mr. Traill brushed this irrelevant pleasantry aside.

"Ay, there's a dog. I let him in my ainsel'."