The byre was no sooner locked than Bobby began, in the pitch
darkness, to explore the walls. The single promise of escape that
was offered was an inch-wide crack under the door, where the
flooring stopped short and exposed a strip of earth. That would
have appalled any but a desperate little dog. The crack was so
small as to admit but one paw, at first, and the earth was packed
as hard as wood by generations of trampling cattle.

There he began to dig. He came of a breed of dogs used by farmers
and hunters to dig small, burrowing animals out of holes, a breed
whose courage and persistence know no limit. He dug patiently,
steadily, hour after hour, enlarging the hole by inches. Now and
then he had to stop to rest. When he was able to use both
forepaws he made encouraging progress; but when he had to reach
under the door, quite the length of his stretched legs, and drag
every bit of earth back into the byre, the task must have been
impossible to any little creature not urged by utter misery. But
Skye terriers have been known to labor with such fury that they
have perished of their own exertions. Bobby's nose sniffed
liberty long before he could squeeze his weasel-like body through
the tunnel. His back bruised and strained by the struggle through
a hole too small, he stood, trembling with exhaustion, in the
windy dawn.

An opening door, a barking sheep-dog, the shuffle of the moving
flock, were signs that the farm day was beginning, although all
the stars had not faded out of the sky. A little flying shadow,
Bobby slipped out of the cow-yard, past the farm-house, and
literally tumbled down the brae. From one level to another he