a cheerful bark. It was as much as to say:

"Dinna fash yersel'! I ken what I'm aboot."

After an hour's hard run back over the dipping and rising country
road and a long quarter circuit of the city, Bobby found the
high-walled, winding way into the west end of the Grassmarket. To
a human being afoot there was a shorter cut, but the little dog
could only retrace the familiar route of the farm carts. It was a
notable feat for a small creature whose tufted legs were not more
than six inches in length, whose thatch of long hair almost swept
the roadway and caught at every burr and bramble, and who was
still so young that his nose could not be said to be educated.

In the market-place he ran here and there through the crowd,
hopefully investigating narrow closes that were mere rifts in
precipices of buildings; nosing outside stairs, doorways,
stables, bridge arches, standing carts, and even hob-nailed
boots. He yelped at the crash of the gun, but it was another
matter altogether that set his little heart to palpitating with
alarm. It was the dinner-hour, and where was Auld Jock?

Ah! A happy thought: his master had gone to dinner!

A human friend would have resented the idea of such base
desertion and sulked. But in a little dog's heart of trust there
is no room for suspicion. The thought simply lent wings to
Bobby's tired feet. As the market-place emptied he chased at the
heels of laggards, up the crescent-shaped rise of Candlemakers
Row, and straight on to the familiar dining-rooms. Through the