Instantly the little dog stood before him like some conjured
ghost. He had slipped from under the slab on which they were
sitting. It lay so near the ground, and in such a mat of dead
grass, that it had not occurred to them to look for him there. He
came up to Mr. Traill confidently, submitted to having his head
patted, and looked pleadingly at the caretaker. Then, thinking he
had permission to do so, he lay down on the mound. James Brown
dropped his pipe.

"It's maist michty!" he said.

Mr. Traill got to his feet briskly. "I'll just tak' the dog with
me, Mr. Brown. On marketday I'll find the farmer that owns him
and send him hame. As you say, a kirkyard's nae place for a dog
to be living neglected. Come awa', Bobby."

Bobby looked up, but, as he made no motion to obey, Mr. Traill
stooped and lifted him.

From sheer surprise at this unexpected move the little dog lay
still a moment on the man's arm. Then, with a lithe twist of his
muscular body and a spring, he was on the ground, trembling,
reproachful for the breach of faith, but braced for resistance.

"Eh, you're no' going?" Mr. Traill put his hands in his pockets,
looked down at Bobby admiringly, and sighed. "There's a dog after
my ain heart, and he'll have naething to do with me. He has a
mind of his ain. I'll just have to be leaving him here the two
days, Mr. Brown."