VI.

Sleep alone goes far to revive a little dog, and fasting sharpens
the wits. Bobby was so tired that he slept soundly, but so hungry
that he woke early, and instantly alert to his situation. It was
so very early of a dark winter morning that not even the sparrows
were out foraging in the kirkyard for dry seeds. The drum and
bugle had not been sounded from the Castle when the milk and
dustman's carts began to clatter over the frozen streets. With
the first hint of dawn stout fishwives, who had tramped all the
way in from the piers of Newhaven with heavily laden creels on
their heads, were lustily crying their "caller herrin'." Soon
fagot men began to call up the courts of tenements, where fuel
was bought by the scant bundle: "Are ye cauld?"

Many a human waif in the tall buildings about the lower end of
Greyfriars kirkyard was cold, even in bed, but, in his thick
underjacket of fleece, Bobby was as warm as a plate of breakfast
toast. With a vigorous shaking he broke and scattered the crust
of snow that burdened his shaggy thatch. Then he lay down on the
grave again, with his nose on his paws. Urgent matters occupied
the little dog's mind. To deal with these affairs he had the long
head of the canniest Scot, wide and high between the ears, and a
muzzle as determined as a little steel trap. Small and forlorn as
he was, courage, resource and purpose marked him.

As soon as the door of the caretaker's lodge opened he would have
to creep under the fallen slab again. To lie in such a cramped
position, hour after hour, day after day, was enough to break the
spirit of any warm blooded creature that lives. It was an