"A gude day to you, Sandy McGregor; and whaur's your auld twin conspirator, Geordie Ross?""He's a student in the Medical College, Mr.Traill.He went by this meenit to the Botanical Garden for herbs my grandmither has aye known without books." Sandy grinned in appreciation of this foolishness, but he added, with Scotch shrewdness, "It's gude for the book-prenting beesiness.""It is so," the landlord agreed, heartily."But you must no' be forgetting that the Chambers brothers war book readers and sellers before they war publishers.You are weel set up in life, laddie, and Heriot's has pulled the warst of the burrs from your tongue.I'm wanting to see Glenormiston.""Mr.William Chambers is no' in.Mr.Robert is aye in, but he's no' liking to be fashed about sma' things.""I'll no' trouble him.It's the Lord Provost I'm wanting, on ofeecial beesiness." He requested Sandy to ask Glenormiston, if he came in, to come over to the Burgh court and spier for Mr.
Traill.
"It's no' his day to sit as magistrate, and he's no' like to go unless it's a fair sairious matter.""Ay, it is, laddie.It's a matter of life and death, I'm thinking!" He smiled grimly, as it entered his head that he might be driven to do violence to that meddling policeman.The yellow gas-light gave his face such a sardonic aspect that Sandy turned pale.
"Wha's death, man?"
Mr.Traill kept his own counsel, but at the door he turned:
"You'll no' be remembering the bittie terrier that lived in the kirkyard?"The light of boyhood days broke in Sandy's grin."Ay, I'll no' be forgetting the sonsie tyke.He was a deil of a dog to tak' on a holiday.Is he still faithfu' to his dead master?""He is that; and for his faithfu'ness he's like to be dead himsel'.The police are takin' up masterless dogs an' putting them out o' the way.I'll mak' a gude fight for Bobby in the Burgh court.""I'll fight with you, man." The spirit of the McGregor clan, though much diluted and subdued by town living, brought Sandy down from a three-legged stool.He called another clerk to take his place, and made off to find the Lord Provost, powerful friend of hameless dogs.Mr.Traill hastened down to the Royal Exchange, below St.Giles and on the northern side of High Street.
Less than a century old, this municipal building was modern among ancient rookeries.To High Street it presented a classic front of four stories, recessed by flanking wings, around three sides of a quadrangular courtyard.Near the entrance there was a row of barber shops and coffee-rooms.Any one having business with the city offices went through a corridor between these places of small trade to the stairway court behind them.On the floor above, one had to inquire of some uniformed attendant in which of the oaken, ante-roomed halls the Burgh court was sitting.And by the time one got there all the pride of civic history of the ancient royal Burgh, as set forth in portrait and statue and a museum of antiquities, was apt to take the lime out of the backbone of a man less courageous than Mr.Traill.What a car of juggernaut to roll over one, small, masterless terrier!
But presently the landlord found himself on his feet, and not so ill at ease.A Scottish court, high or low, civil or criminal, had a flavor all its own.Law points were threshed over with gusto, but counsel, client, and witness gained many a point by ready wit, and there was no lack of dry humor from the bench.
About the Burgh court, for all its stately setting, there was little formality.The magistrate of the day sat behind a tall desk, with a clerk of record at his elbow, and the officer gave his testimony briefly: Edinburgh being quite overrun by stray and unlicensed dogs, orders had recently been given the Burgh police to report such animals.In Mr.Traill's place he had seen a small terrier that appeared to be at home there; and, indeed, on the dog's going out, Mr.Traill had called a servant lassie to fetch a bone, and to open the door for him.He noticed that the animal wore no collar, and felt it his duty to report the matter.
By the time Mr.Traill was called to answer to the charge a number of curious idlers had gathered on the back benches.He admitted his name and address, but denied that he either owned or was harboring a dog.The magistrate fixed a cold eye upon him, and asked if he meant to contradict the testimony of the officer.
"Nae, your Honor; and he might have seen the same thing ony week-day of the past eight and a half years.But the bit terrier is no' my ain dog." Suddenly, the memory of the stormy night, the sick old man and the pathos of his renunciation of the only beating heart in the world that loved him--"Bobby isna ma ain dog!" swept over the remorseful landlord.He was filled with a fierce championship of the wee Highlander, whose loyalty to that dead master had brought him to this strait.
To the magistrate Mr.Traill's tossed-up head had the effect of defiance, and brought a sharp rebuke."Don't split hairs, Mr.
Traill.You are wasting the time of the court.You admit feeding the dog.Who is his master and where does he sleep?""His master is in his grave in auld Greyfriars kirkyard, and the dog has aye slept there on the mound."The magistrate leaned over his desk."Man, no dog could sleep in the open for one winter in this climate.Are you fond of romancing, Mr.Traill?""No' so overfond, your Honor.The dog is of the subarctic breed of Skye terriers, the kind with a thick under-jacket of fleece, and a weather thatch that turns rain like a crofter's cottage roof.""There should be witnesses to such an extraordinary story.The dog could not have lived in this strictly guarded churchyard without the consent of those in authority." The magistrate was plainly annoyed and skeptical, and Mr.Traill felt the sting of it.
