The Tale of Greyfriars Bobby Read online

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  THE TALE OF GREYFRIARS BOBBY

  LAVINIA DERWENT

  The Tale

  of Greyfriars Bobby

  Illustrated by Martin J. Cottam

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published 1985

  28

  Copyright © Lavinia Derwent,1985

  Illustrations copyright © Martin J. Cottam, 1985

  All rights reserved

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  Contents

  Chapter 1 Bobby Finds a Home

  Chapter 2 The Big City

  Chapter 3 The Tenement Children

  Chapter 4 Greyfriars

  Chapter 5 The Snow Dog

  Chapter 1

  Bobby Finds a Home

  A carriage rattled along the twisty road towards the farm. Inside was a scruffy little dog, a Skye terrier who had seen nothing of the world and who had no proper home. The

  people in the carriage wanted rid of him. They stopped outside the farmhouse.

  ‘Is there a chance you might find a use for a wee dog?’

  ‘No!’ said the farmer. ‘Not a silly wee dog like that!’

  But no sooner had these words been spoken than the dog jumped down from the carriage and ran into the house. And into Elsie's heart!

  Her father knew he was beaten.

  ‘I give in,’ he groaned.

  Elsie sat at his feet, looking up at him with blue tear-stained eyes. As soon as he gave in, the sun came out and the tears changed to smiles. She had won!

  Elsie was too young to make up long speeches, but she showed her pleasure by clapping her hands. ‘The wee dog! The wee dog!’ she repeated. ‘I can keep the wee dog!’

  Her father nodded. ‘He's a daft-like beast,’ he grumbled. ‘If he had been a collie, now, he could have helped to round up the sheep. But a terrier! What use will he be on a farm?’

  Still, if his little daughter was pleased, that was the main thing. He smiled at her as she sat on the floor petting the small Skye terrier who was frisking round her. ‘Good wee dog! Good wee dog!’ she kept saying.

  The dog licked her hand and wagged his tail. Then he darted away and sniffed into all the corners of the kitchen. It was a nice enough place and the girl was friendly, but he did not want to be a lapdog confined to the kitchen. He wanted more freedom. Freedom to go outside.

  The farmer had gone out, leaving the door open. The little terrier scented the fresh air and the country smells. A hop-skip-and-jump! And he had bolted into the outside world.

  ‘Wee dog! Wee dog! Come back!’ cried Elsie, getting to her feet and toddling after him. But the wee dog did not heed her. There were too many new sights to take up his attention.

  The immediate world was a farm on the Pentland Hills in Scotland, not far from the big city of Edinburgh. But the Skye terrier knew nothing of that. All he could see were sheep and some big dogs guarding them. That was enough for him! He had found something to chase. What could be better?

  Yapping with delight, he darted towards the startled sheep and snapped at their heels. Bleating with terror, they turned tail and began to move out of his way. They could not understand what had gone wrong. They had been rounded up by the collies as usual, and were awaiting the next move from the shepherd who was in control of them.

  There he was, standing as he always did, leaning on his big stick: his crook. When he saw the little dog he straightened himself up and let out an angry shout. Then he put his fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. The collie dogs understood his command and went bounding after the terrier.

  They snapped at the little dog, and the terrier snapped back. It was all part of a game, the terrier thought. It was fun! He was enjoying himself when suddenly he felt something grip his throat. The shepherd had caught him by the neck with his crook.

  The little terrier stared up at the man in surprise – an old man with a bent back and a

  weatherbeaten face. He was shouting in a gruff voice. Short sharp words.

  ‘Away hame! Daft dog! Go on! Away hame!’

  ‘Hame’ meant home. The terrier had found a home all right, but that was only a place: a warm kitchen and a lassie who wanted to pet and pat him. All very well for soft silly creatures like kittens or poodles; but he was a Skye terrier and he wanted something better. To be part of the real world outside. The man with the long stick was more to his liking than the soft-spoken little girl.

  No! he was not going back. He shook himself free from the shepherd's crook, and then he sat on his tail for a while watching the collies round up the straying sheep into tidy groups. The shepherd gave another whistle and they all moved off towards the hills.

  ‘Wait for me! I'm coming too!’ The little terrier went darting after them.

  The old shepherd strode on, steadying himself now and again with his crook. He was used to long walks. Had he not trudged dozens of miles across rough ground in his day? But surely the hills were becoming steeper now… the stone walls round the fields – the dykes – were more difficult to climb, and his breath seemed to be shorter. The truth was, he was growing old.

  His real name was John Gray, but the Scots called him Jock. He had once been Young Jock – but oh! that was many years ago. Then, he could run and wrestle and jump

  with the best. The hills were not steep or the dykes hard to climb. He was the best shepherd in the district, trusted with the care and training of collie dogs. Think of all the prizes he had won at the sheepdog trials! One whistle, and the collies obeyed his commands.

  Little wonder his master used to say, ‘He's worth his weight in gold, Jock! The best shepherd I've ever had.’

  But now they called him Auld Jock. ‘Auld’ ▓meant old; and there was no doubt he would never be Young Jock again. ‘Aye! I'm getting auld,’ he had to agree, though he tried to ignore it. It had been a good life, and he wished it would go on for ever. As long as he was out in the open air, with a dog at his heels, he was happy. And he still enjoyed a jaunt to Edinburgh, where he could have a drink at his favourite inn. There, he could forget his worries and escape from his sad thoughts.

  But the time was coming when he would be forced to give up his work. He had overheard the farmer grumbling: ‘Auld Jock's getting too old and slow for the job.’

  Auld Jock knew he was being kept on out of kindness, but it could not last much longer. More and more he came to depend on the collies, until they did most of the work for him. He would whistle his orders, then rest on his crook till they ran the weary miles he was too tired to trudge.

  Today he straightene
d his back and tried to put a spring in his step as he set off towards the higher slopes. He was clambering over a dyke when he heard a yapping behind him.

  ‘That daft dog!’ he groaned. ‘Away hame! D‘ye hear me? Away hame!’

  The little terrier bounced up and down on his hind legs, pleased to be spoken to even in such a stern voice. Auld Jock kicked out angrily at him but still the dog did not flinch. He was not going to let the shepherd out of his sight.

  As the old man climbed over the dyke, the terrier determined to scramble after him. It was not easy for such a little dog to jump so high. Try, try, try again! He fell back time after time; but at last with a triumphant yelp he reached the top. Down he jumped on the other side, and off he ran after the shepherd.

  Auld Jock let out another angry shout and hit the terrier with his crook. The little dog took no notice and continued to follow at his heels. There was no going back for him now! He had found a master and would follow him for ever.

  The old shepherd gave a grunt. ‘Och weel! come on then,’ said he, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Ye're a daft beast, but if I canna get rid o' ye, keep ahint. D‘ye hear me? Ahint!’

  The Skye terrier soon learned that ‘ahint' meant behind. So he stayed at the man's heels, stopping when the shepherd stopped and crawling forward when his master took another step.

  But it was too tempting when a rabbit bobbed up out of a hole. The well-trained collies took no notice and did not move, but the terrier yelped excitedly and set off after his prey.

  ‘Come back, ye daft dog!’ roared the shepherd. ‘Ye'll scatter the sheep. Ye canna gang bobbin' aboot like that. Keep ahint!’ Then, as he moved off, he turned and said, ‘Hoots! ye'd better have a name. Ye're aye bobbin‘, so what aboot Bobby?’

  Now the shaggy little dog had a home and a name and a master to follow. He was not just a Skye terrier. He was Bobby.

  And so began one of the strangest real-life stories about a little dog and his master.

  Chapter 2

  The Big City

  Elsie was sitting on a rug in front of the kitchen fire. But where was the wee dog?

  Outside, of course, following Auld Jock and the sheep.

  He was always outside. Elsie had given up trying to keep Bobby in the kitchen. The terrier had tasted freedom and refused to be housebound. No amount of coaxing would lure him to the fireside. So she had to be content with her rag doll. ‘But I'd rather have Bobby,’ she sighed.

  Suddenly she heard him barking outside, and a loud din at the door. It was the shepherd rap-rap-rapping with the handle of his crook. Then the door burst open and he pushed the terrier inside.

  ‘Keep him in there!’ cried Auld Jock crossly. ‘Dinna let him oot! I'm on ma way to

  the toon, and I dinna want that dog following me. Lock him in!’

  He shut the door with a bang and was gone, leaving Bobby yelping and scratching to get out.

  ‘Good wee dog!’ coaxed Elsie, throwing aside her rag doll. ‘Come and sit on the rug. Come on, Bobby. Good wee dog!’

  But there was nothing good about Bobby. He was in a very bad temper. Why had Auld Jock left him? There was only one thing he wanted to do: to get out and follow his master wherever he went.

  The shepherd was his best friend. For weeks now Bobby had run at his heels, happy to be out in the fresh air, living the active life that suited him. He was an alert little dog, quick to learn that every word and every whistle had a meaning. But there was no meaning if the shepherd had deserted him. Without Auld Jock he was lost.

  Not that Auld Jock was soft with him. Bobby got more cuffs than kindness from the shepherd, as well as thumps from that fearsome crook. But he would sooner hear an angry shout from Jock than a gentle word from Elsie.

  He was Auld Jock's dog, and that was it!

  All this activity was making the little terrier strong and sturdy. He was finding it easier to leap over the stone dykes and to run the long miles without tiring. And he was trying hard not to rush after rabbits, but to stand still until Auld Jock gave the signal to move. Sometimes the other dogs turned and snarled at him, so he tried to keep out of their way in case he was tempted to bite back.

  If he could please his master, that was all Bobby wanted. Now the old man had gone off without him! He must get out! If the door would not yield, he must try the window.

  ‘Yap-yap-yap!’ he barked in a frenzy, jumping up on to the kitchen table, then on to the window-ledge. ‘Yap-yap-yap! Yap-yap…’

  Meanwhile the old shepherd was striding out on his way to Edinburgh. It was wonderful to get away on his own, without a daft dog yelping at his heels. Auld Jock looked forward to his visits to the big town, a change from the lonely life he led on the farm. He could mingle with the crowd gathered in the Grassmarket, he could watch them buying and selling, then wander off to the inn. Traill's Dining-Rooms. There he could sit at leisure, smoking his pipe and drinking ale before eating his simple meal.

  Auld Jock whistled as he thought of it, but not the way he whistled to the dogs. This was a turn, ‘Over the Sea to Skye‘. The music kept him going. There were still many miles to walk, but it was not as tiring as tramping over the rough hillside. Soon he would see the spires of Edinburgh in the distance. He was getting nearer to his drink in the inn. ‘Speed bonnie boat…’

  Suddenly he stopped whistling. He had heard a sound behind him, a sound he tried to ignore. Yap-yap-yap! No! he would not turn round and look. Could it be Bobby? Surely the terrier could never have escaped from the kitchen, nor could he have run so many miles over strange territory. It couldn't be Bobby!

  ‘Yap-yap-yap!’ By now the dog was at his heels, barking with excitement. Auld Jock was forced to turn round. There he was!

  ‘Daft dog!’ he shouted angrily. ‘Away hame! How on earth did ye get oot? And how on earth did ye find your way? Daft dog!’

  Bobby leapt up and licked his hand. He had found his master, that was all that mattered. He had forgotten all his struggles to get out, his attempts to squeeze through the narrow gap left open at the window, his frantic barks and scratches. In the end Elsie had been forced to open the door and set him free. As for finding his way, well! he could scent the old shepherd for miles.

  ‘Away hame, daft dog!’

  Yet even as he spoke, Auld Jock knew he was wasting his breath. By now Bobby was running on ahead of him, looking back as if to say, ‘Hurry up, Jock!’

  The Skye terrier was so happy he could have danced all the way to Edinburgh… or wherever his master was going.

  ‘You're a nuisance! grumbled Auld Jock crossly. ‘A perfect pest!’

  But now that the terrier was here, what else could he do but continue on his way with Bobby frisking round him? As the road grew busier the old man called him to heel. ‘Keep ahint!’ he warned the dog gruffly.

  Obediently, Bobby walked behind the shepherd, puzzled by the noise and bustle. Where had all these people come from? It was

  a great change from the peaceful hillside. When they reached the Grassmarket the medley of noise grew louder. Crowds were milling about, dogs barking, children shouting, music playing. On the farm the loudest noise was a bird whistling or Auld Jock's sharp orders.

  The shepherd marched on and went to join a group of men gathered near the market-cross. Bobby kept a wary eye on him, for he did not want to lose touch with him again. But there were many strange sights to divert the dog's attention.

  The strangest was the hurdy-gurdy man, making music by turning a handle. Tum-tum-tum! It was a merry tune, and the children clustering round him began to jig up and down as if they were dancing. Tum-tum-tum! A little creature sat on top of the hurdy-gurdy. A funny wee animal, like a wizened old man, with a red tammy on his head. He was clapping his small paws and swaying in time to the music. Tum-tum-tum!

  What kind of beast was that?

  Bobby sat on his tail and watched in amazement. Then he heard an excited voice crying out: ‘See the wee monkey! Oh! see the wee monkey!’

  A lame boy
squatting on the ground near by began to clap his hands in time to the music. Tum-tum-tum!

  ‘See the wee monkey!’ he chuckled, and turned to the terrier as if expecting some response. Bobby swished his tail. So the little creature was a monkey!

  Geordie, the lame boy, was bouncing up and down, trying to dance like the rest of the children. For a time he had forgotten his pain and poverty, that he lived in the slums – called the Tenements – and seldom had enough to eat. The other youngsters pushed him aside when they were playing their rough games.

  ‘Lame Geordie!’ they sneered. ‘We don't want you! You're too slow!’

  Sometimes he thought it would be wonderful to be supple and straight so that he could run races and kick footballs. But at least he had fun looking on, and in the Grassmarket there was plenty to see.

  The hurdy-gurdy man had moved away, so Geordie gave his full attention to the dog.

  ‘Hullo, you!’ he said in a friendly voice, dragging himself closer to Bobby. ‘Are ye lost?’

  No! Bobby wasn't lost, only bewildered by the constant clamour. Suddenly he almost jumped out of his skin, startled by a loud booming noise. What was that?

  Lame Geordie took little notice of it. He heard the one o'clock gun every day. The great cannon, Mons Meg, fired the shot regularly from the Castle ramparts. It was a signal everyone heard and understood.

  Auld Jock heard it, too. Time for him to move off and make for Traill's Dining-Rooms to take his drink and dinner. Bobby cocked his ears when he saw his master walk away, and was off like a shot to join him. He was not going to be left behind.

  ‘Oh! can ye not wait?’ the lame boy called after him in a disappointed voice. He had hoped he had found a new friend who would share his loneliness; but Lame Geordie was used to his own company and was never downhearted for long. ‘Maybe ye'll come back another day?’