exquisite form of torture not long to be endured. And to get his
single meal a day at Mr. Traill's place Bobby had to watch for
the chance opening of the wicket to slip in and out like a thief.
The furtive life is not only perilous, it outrages every feeling
of an honest dog. It is hard for him to live at all without the
approval and the cordial consent of men. The human order hostile,
he quickly loses his self-respect and drops to the pariah class.
Already wee Bobby had the look of the neglected. His pretty coat
was dirty and unkempt. In his run across country, leaves, twigs
and burrs had become entangled in his long hair, and his legs and
underparts were caked with mire.

Instinctively any dog struggles to escape the fate of the
outcast. By every art he possesses he ingratiates himself with
men. One that has his usefulness in the human scheme of things
often is able to make his own terms with life, to win the niche
of his choice. Bobby's one talent that was of practical value to
society was his hunting instinct for every small animal that
burrows and prowls and takes toll of men's labor. In Greyfriars
kirkyard was work to be done that he could do. For quite three
centuries rats and mice had multiplied in this old sanctuary
garden from which cats were chased and dogs excluded. Every
breeze that blew carried challenges to Bobby's offended nose.
Now, in the crisp gray dawn, a big rat came out into the open and
darted here and there over the powdering of dry snow that frosted
the kirkyard.

A leap, as if released from a spring, and Bobby captured it. A
snap of his long muzzle, a jerk of his stoutly set head, and the
victim hung limp from his grip. And he followed another deeply