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Updated: May 12, 2025
Bobby had insisted upon being let out of the lodge kitchen, and had spent the morning near Auld Jock's grave and in nosing about neighboring slabs and thorn bushes. When the time-gun boomed he trotted to the gate quite openly and waited there inside the wicket. In such nipping weather there were no visitors to the kirkyard and the gate was not opened.
As there was no answer to this, the skilled conversational angler dropped a bit of bait that the wariest man must rise to. "That's a vera intelligent bit dog, Auld Jock. He was here with the time-gun spiering for you. When he didna find you he greeted like a bairn."
Then the time-gun boomed from the Castle, and the little dog trotted up for his dinner and nap under the settle and his daily visit with Mr. Traill. In fair weather, when the last guest had departed and the music bells of St.
If his life was clandestine in a way, it was as regular of hour and duty and as well ordered as that of the garrison in the Castle. When the time-gun boomed, Bobby was let out for his midday meal at Mr. Traill's and for a noisy run about the neighborhood to exercise his lungs and legs. On Wednesdays he haunted the Grassmarket, sniffing at horses, carts and mired boots.
So many strange, uncanny things had happened within the last twenty-four hours that the little dog was rapidly outgrowing his irresponsible puppyhood. After a long time Auld Jock opened his eyes and sat up. Bobby put his paws on his master's knees in anxious sympathy. Before the man had got his wits about him the time-gun boomed from the Castle.
When the time-gun boomed from Edinburgh Castle, Bobby gave a startled yelp. He was only a little country dog the very youngest and smallest and shaggiest of Skye terriers bred on a heathery slope of the Pentland hills, where the loudest sound was the bark of a collie or the tinkle of a sheep-bell.
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