The Tale of Greyfriars Bobby Read online

  Yes! Bobby would come back as often as his master came. Meantime he was dodging in and out of the passing people, always keeping the old man in sight. They passed a church called Greyfriars, walked through dark passages called ‘wynds‘, turned right and left – and there they were. Traill's Dining-Rooms.

  Mr John Traill stood at the door of the inn, enjoying a breath of fresh air and greeting some of the folk who came in. He was a man of few words, but he spoke briefly to his regular customers. He nodded to Auld Jock. ‘Nice day!’

  ‘Not bad!’ agreed Jock, and went in to take his usual place on a wooden seat near the fire. It was a relief to sit down and rest his tired legs. He gave a contented sigh and put his hand in his pocket to search for his pipe.

  The innkeeper stepped inside to attend to his customers, shutting the door behind him. Auld Jock was lighting his pipe when he heard a sound at the door. Scratch-scratch-scratch! Yap-yap-yap!

  ‘What's that?’ cried Mr Traill angrily. ‘No dogs allowed in my inn! You know the rule!’

  Auld Jock gave a weary groan. ‘Aye, I ken!’ he sighed and dragged himself to the door as the yelping and scratching grew louder. ‘It'll be Bobby. I'll send him away.’

  Send Bobby away! Auld Jock had scarcely opened the door before the little terrier darted inside, barking with delight at having found his master once again. No use trying to chase him out. ‘I'm here and I'm staying!’ was his attitude.

  ‘Stubborn beast!’ grunted the old shepherd. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Traill. He'll no' budge!’

  ‘I'll budge him!’ roared the innkeeper, grabbing a broom. He began to chase Bobby in a fury of rage. ‘Out! Out! No dogs allowed!’

  No! Bobby would play games with the man if he liked, but he was not going out. He dodged between Mr Traill's legs, round the

  counter, and then to a dark corner where he lay down with his nose on his paws. ‘Nobody will budge me!’

  In the end John Traill had to give up. ‘I'm beaten!’ he declared, throwing down the broom in disgust. ‘That's not a normal dog. He'll have to stay this time, but he's never to come back again. Never!’

  But despite the man's protestations, in the weeks that followed the little dog became as regular a visitor at Traill's Dining-Rooms as his master!

  Chapter 3

  The Tenement Children

  ‘No, no! We dinna want you, Geordie. Ye're just a nuisance! Away ye go!’

  The slum children who lived in a broken-down tenement pushed Geordie aside so roughly that the lame boy tumbled to the ground. He bit his lip and looked wistful for a moment as he tried to drag himself to his feet. But Geordie had heard it all before and knew it was true. He was too weak to join in the others' wild games.

  In his imagination he could run faster than any of them. He could beat Big Tam at boxing, he could kick a ball better than Bob, he could turn cartwheels faster than Wee Eck. If only it was true!

  In reality, he was forced to keep out of their way or stand at the back ready to catch a ball if it came near him. He was happy to pitch it back or try a feeble kick at an old tin can. Kick-the-can was one of their favourite games, played with an old cocoa-tin. Rounders was another, when they could find a rubber ball; and, of course, there was always fighting. The tenement children were seldom without bruises on their brows or cuts on their knees. It was all part of life in the slums. There was little else for them.

  Except for Geordie. He was luckier than the rest because of his imagination. Better than that, he had a sense of humour. It helped him to forget his hard life, seeing the comical side of everything. Surely it was better to laugh than cry; and Geordie could always find something to amuse him, even though the others rejected him.

  So today he pulled himself to his feet and looked around for something to entertain him. Suddenly he thought of the Grass-market. That was the place to find amusement! Geordie cheered up when he remembered this was market-day. There would be crowds of people to watch, pedlars and performers, singing and dancing – and perhaps he would see the wee dog.

  Over the past weeks, he and Bobby had often sat side by side watching the throng. The dog scarcely moved a muscle till he heard the one o'clock gun. Then he pricked his ears and was off like a shot, following the old shepherd, always in the same direction. To Mr Traill's Dining-Rooms.

  Today it took the lame boy a long time to reach the Grassmarket, jostled by the crowds and sometimes knocked to the ground. He was bruised all over by the time he reached his usual place and saw that the dog was sitting there. Geordie gave a sigh of relief as he settled down beside Bobby. Yes! it had been worth all the effort to come. He could sit here for hours, just looking on and enjoying the sights. But first he greeted the little dog.

  ‘Hullo, Bobby!’

  The Skye terrier did not respond. He was too busy watching the crowds as if searching

  for a familiar figure. There was such a forlorn look about him that it touched the lame boy's heart. ‘What's wrong, Bobby? Cheer up! You'll soon hear the one o'clock gun.’

  That was what the dog would be waiting for. The signal to rush off and join his master. But why was the wee dog looking so sad?

  BOOM!

  The sudden noise was startling even though it was expected. Children screamed, the jugglers fumbled, pigeons flew dizzily up into the air, and Bobby scampered off as if he had been shot from the gun.

  Lame Geordie watched him weave in and out of the crowd. There was something different about him today. Yap-yap-yap! He was barking in distress. Back and forward the little dog rushed, sniffing the ground and whining pitifully. What was wrong? Could he not find the old man?

  ‘Dinna worry, Bobby; he'll turn up,’ Geordie called to him.

  The dog did not listen. He made one more search and then darted off in the direction of Traill's Dining-Rooms.

  The lame boy sat and puzzled over it for a time. Something was wrong, but he could not solve the mystery. Where was the old shepherd? Then he cheered himself up with the thought that perhaps Bobby and his master would be reunited at the inn.

  John Traill was standing in his usual place at the door of the inn, idly watching the passers-by. He greeted some of his customers as they came in. ‘Hi, Tam!’ ‘Hullo, Pete!’ Then he shrugged his shoulders impatiently when he heard Bobby barking in a frenzy.

  ‘That dog!’ he grunted angrily. ‘He's a perfect pest!’

  Bobby came bounding to the door, pushed past Mr Traill, and ran barking into the inn. First he rushed to the corner where Auld Jock usually sat, but the wooden chair was empty. The dog's tail drooped. He gave a whine and ran back to the innkeeper, pawing at his legs as if asking a question.

  ‘No! I haven't seen him.’ Mr Traill shook his head. Then he took a closer look at Bobby and cried: ‘Mercy me! You're awful thin! Are you starving, poor beast? Wait! I'll get you something to eat.’

  The food in the inn was simple, but there was an appetizing smell of smoked herring, roasted potatoes and stewed meat. The Skye terrier did not seem to notice it, but he waited long enough to lap up some water from a bowl. Then once more he ran off, whimpering as he went.

  ‘Mercy me!’ muttered John Traill. ‘That Bobby's a queer beast! I hope to goodness he finds the old man.’

  It would not be for want of trying. The little dog did not confine his search to the Grassmarket; he ran all over the town, crossing unfamiliar streets, dodging in and out of the traffic, and causing a policeman to blow a blast on his whistle. Then Bobby squealed, like a baby crying, and ran back to the spot where Auld Jock often stood. His tail drooped when there was still no sign of his old friend. Where else could he search?

  Then suddenly his ears were cocked, his tail was wagging, and all his weariness had gone. He had seen what he was looking for! An old man stumbled on unsteady feet across the cobbled street and turned in at a poor lodging-house. With a yelp and a bound, the Skye terrier set off after him. All his troubles were over; he had found his master.

  But what was Auld Jock doing in such a wretched place? The inevitable had happened. The farmer had told the shepherd he

  was too old and it was time to go. A young and able-bodied shepherd had already been hired to replace him. Auld Jock had been expecting the blow, yet when it came it had almost felled him to the ground. He had had to lean on his crook for support as he faced the farmer.

  What was he going to do? He had no friends or relations in the world; no one cared whether he lived or died. The only place he could go to was the big town of Edinburgh.

  And he would have to go alone. He did not want that yapping little terrier following him. He wanted to be free of his old life and free of that persistent pest of a dog.

  So Auld Jock spoke to the farmer. ‘Could ye keep Bobby shut up till I get away?’

  ‘Yes! Dinna worry, Jock. I'll shut him in the coal-shed.’ It was the most secure building on the farm, with a door which could be bolted and barred. ‘I'll keep him there for a couple o' days. Dinna worry! He'll no' get oot.’

  Auld Jock set off alone on his last journey to Edinburgh. He had a small bundle on his back containing all his worldly goods. It was light, but his heart was heavy and his step slow. He could not bear to turn and look at the hills where he had spent so many happy years.

  For the first time in his life the old shepherd had tears in his eyes. There was no spring in his step, no whistle on his lips; only a dull ache in his heart. His feet were faltering when he reached the town and he shuffled into the first inn he could find. Drink would help him to forget his troubles.

  By the time Auld Jock came out of the inn, his step was unsteady and he was swaying from side to side. He had begun to cough – the cold wind was catching at his throat. Added to that, there was a pain in his chest, and he was finding it difficult to breathe. What he need
ed was shelter, but he had no strength to look for it. So he slumped to the ground and sat there, coughing and shivering.

  At last the bitter wind revived him and he pulled himself to his feet to begin his search. By now he had lost his small bundle, but he found some money in his pocket and showed it to an old woman who kept a lodging-house.

  ‘Come in,’ she croaked, and lit a candle to

  show him up the creaky stairs. ‘Ye're in a bad way, mister. Will I get a doctor?’

  No! Auld Jock would have no doctor. All he wanted was a bed to rest on, and to be left in peace. But there was little rest or peace for him that night. He tossed and turned, and by morning the pain in his chest was worse and his lips were parched. But ill though he was, he dragged himself up and went out to a nearby inn to spend the last of his coins on drink. It was as he was staggering back to the lodging-house that Bobby caught sight of him.

  The dog followed the old shepherd as he lurched up the stairs and opened the door of a dingy room. There was no furniture in it, only a bed in the corner which creaked when Auld Jock flung himself down on it. He lay there tossing, turning and coughing.

  Bobby crawled forward and sat watching him. Then he went nearer and licked the wrinkled old hand. Auld Jock was aware of the dog's presence and began to mumble. ‘Bobby! Is that you, Bobby? Daft dog! Gang away hame… Cough-cough-cough…’

  Of course the faithful terrier had no intention of leaving his post. But he was so exhausted that at times he put his head down on his paws and drifted into an uneasy sleep. Then he woke with a start when he heard that rasping noise. Cough-cough-cough!

  ‘Keep ahint, Bobby! Cough-cough-cough! Gang hame! I'm too auld… too auld… Gang hame…’

  The old man moaned in his sleep. His mind was blurred, but sometimes he had a vision of straying sheep and of dogs running at his heels. He tried to whistle and call: ‘Come in ahint!’, but he was too weak.

  Bobby listened to the old man's ramblings as he crouched by the bed. Suddenly he sat bolt upright. Auld Jock was no longer coughing or wheezing. Why was it so quiet? Was his master cured?

  No. Poor Auld Jock was dead!

  Chapter 4

  Greyfriars

  ‘Quick, Geordie! Look oot! Catch the ball!’

  The tenement children were playing one of their rough-and-tumble games. As usual Lame Geordie had been pushed to the back, but he was keeping a watchful eye on the others. If he was lucky he might get a chance to join in.

  This was it! Now! The moment he had been waiting for had come. He would be a hero. Catch the ball deftly, and toss it back swift and straight to Big Tam who was wait-ng for it.

  ‘Idiot!’

  Big Tam let out an angry shout as Geordie dropped the ball. Why had he turned away and let it slip through his fingers?

  ‘It's Bobby!’ cried the lame boy.

  The little dog had spent days roaming

  through the Edinburgh streets. At last he had come across a familiar face. He darted up to the boy and pawed at his legs. The terrier was whining so sadly that Geordie gave up his moment of glory to attend to the shivering little creature. He bent down to pat the dog. ‘What's wrong, Bobby? Oh! poor wee thing, you're starving!’

  Geordie felt in his pockets, though he knew he would find nothing there for the dog to eat. ‘Wait, Bobby! I'll get something. Some water…’

  But it was neither food nor water Bobby wanted. He was running round Geordie in great distress, as if he were trying to say something. What was it? The lame boy was at his wits' end trying to understand him.

  He had a sudden idea. ‘Come on, Bobby! We'll go to Mr Traill and see if he can help.’ He knew the dog often went to the inn with the old shepherd. Perhaps the innkeeper would know what was wrong.

  It was a long walk for Geordie with his lame leg; long and slow. The little dog bounded in front of him, barking impatiently. ‘Hurry up! Yap-yap-yap! You're dawdling like a snail. Get a move on! Yap-yap-yap!’

  Geordie limped on as quickly as he could. ‘If only I could run!’ he was thinking to himself. ‘Oh! I wish I had a new pair of legs.’

  He had lost his breath by the time he came within sight of the inn. Bobby was already there, howling on the doorstep. The din had brought Mr Traill to the door.

  ‘That dog again!’ he cried angrily. ‘What's up with him? He's been at the door a dozen times already. What is he looking for?’

  ‘I dinna ken,’ gasped Geordie. ‘Maybe it's the auld man. Bobby seems lost without him. Can you not find him, Mr Trail?’

  ‘The auld man! Ye mean Auld Jock?’ Mr Traill shook his head. ‘I've got more to do than run after dogs and auld men.’ But he was not as heartless as he sounded, and when he saw how distressed Bobby was he changed his mind. ‘Come to think of it, I haven't seen Auld Jock myself for a while. Something must have happened to him. Maybe I should go and see…’

  So he shut the door and set off with Bobby rushing on ahead, while Lame Geordie sank down on the steps to rest his weary legs. The dog was bounding and barking, impatient for the innkeeper to walk faster. ‘Hurry!’ he seemed to be saying. ‘I've got something to show you.’

  What could it be?

  Mr Traill grew more puzzled as Bobby led him round corners, through narrow wynds and at last to the gate of an old churchyard.

  ‘Greyfriars kirkyaird! What's Bobby wanting here?’ wondered the man.

  The little dog had left him and was trying to leap over the wicket gate, but it was too high. Then he tried to scramble up over the railings round the churchyard, but time and again he fell back with a whimper. The wicket gate was bolted and padlocked, and there was a notice above it. NO DOGS ALLOWED.

  ‘Ye canna get in there, Bobby,’ Mr Traill called out as the dog made another attempt to force the gate open. ‘This is no place for dogs. Come back!’

  But Bobby kept on barking and jumping as if he had gone mad. He tugged at the gate and scratched the ground in desperation. It was obvious that he was determined to get inside somehow or other.

  Then John Traill saw it! A newly-dug grave roughly covered over. Could that be the reason for Bobby's strange behaviour?

  ‘D‘ye ken whose grave that is?’ he called to a man who had come out of a nearby house.

  It was James Brown, the keeper of the churchyard. He carried a stick in his hand, and his face was red with rage. Without bothering to answer Mr Traill, he rushed forward and roared, ‘Get that beast away! NO DOGS ALLOWED! Can ye no' read?’

  ‘The dog canna read! Hold it, man!’ cried the innkeeper. The man had raised his stick and was about to bring it down on Bobby's

  back. ‘Answer my question. Who was buried in that grave?’

  ‘Oh! some auld man,’ said the caretaker impatiently. ‘A shepherd, I think. I dinna ken his name. Auld Jock, they said! Aye! that's it!’

  ‘Poor auld man!’ Mr Traill shook his head sadly, thinking of the many times Auld Jock had sat at his fireside. Then he turned his attention to Bobby, whining at his feet. ‘This is his dog,’ he told the keeper. ‘He's looking for his master.’

  ‘Weel, he'll no' find him alive,’ said James Brown crossly. ‘Ye'd better take him away. NO DOGS ALLOWED. I dinna want to see that beast again. Get rid o' him!’

  It was easy to say, but not so easy to do! No coaxing, no threats, no beatings would make Bobby budge from the churchyard gate. In the end, Mr Traill had to fasten a string round the dog's neck and drag him, howling, through the streets. The innkeeper was exhausted by the time he got home, and his patience was at an end.

  ‘Get in there!’ he shouted, pushing Bobby into a dark cupboard and locking the door. ‘Ye can bide there till I get rid o' ye. I've had enough of you and your capers!’

  But after a while his heart softened and he fetched some food and water. The dog was moaning in the darkness, but Mr Traill left him alone and went about his business.

  He was serving his customers when he had a sudden idea. A carrier who had left his horse and cart at the door came in for a drink.