r. Brown dropped to a
seat on the slab.

"Preserve us a'!"

He stared from the little dog to his victims, turned them over with his
stout stick and counted them, and stared again. Bobby fixed his pleading
eyes on the man and stood at strained attention while fate hung in the
balance.

"Guile wark! Guile wark! A braw doggie, an' an unco' fechter. Losh! but
ye're a deil o' a bit dog!"

All this was said in a tone of astonished comment, so non-committal of
feeling that Bobby's tail began to twitch in the stress of his anxiety.
When the caretaker spoke again, after a long, puzzled frowning, it was
to express a very human bewilderment and irritation.

"Noo, what am I gangin' to do wi' ye?"

Ah, that was encouraging! A moment before, he had ordered Bobby out in
no uncertain tone. After another moment he referred the question to a
higher court.

"Jeanie, woman, come awa' oot a meenit, wull ye?"

A hasty pattering of carpet-slippered feet on the creaking snow, around
the kirk, and there was the neatest little apple-cheeked peasant woman
in Scotland, "snod" from her smooth, frosted hair, spotless linen mutch
and lawn kerchief, to her white, lamb's wool stockings.

"Here's the bit dog I was tellin' ye aboot; an' see for yersel' what
he's done noo."

"The wee beastie couldna do a' that! It's as muckle as his ain wecht in
fou' vermin!" she cried.

"Ay, he did. Thae terriers are sperity, by the ordinar'. Ane o' them,
let into the corn exchange a murky nicht, killed saxty in ten meenits,
an' had to be dragged awa' by the tail. Noo, what I am gangin' to do wi'
the takin' bit I dinna ken."

It is very certain that simple Mistress Jean Brown had never heard of
Mr. Dick's advice to Miss Betsy Trotwood on the occasion when young
David Copperfield presented himself, travel-stained and weary, before
his good aunt. But out of her experience of wholesome living she brought
forth the same wise opinion.

"I'd gie him a gude washin' first of a', Jamie. He leuks like some
puir, gaen-aboot dog." And she drew her short, blue-stuff gown back from
Bobby's grateful attentions.

Mr. Brown slapped his corduroy-breeked knee and nodded his grizzled
head. "Richt ye are. It's maist michty, noo, I wadna think o' that. When
I was leevin' as an under gairdener wi' a laird i' Argyleshire I was aye
aboot the kennels wi' the gillies. That was lang syne. The sma' terrier
dogs were aye washed i' claes tubs wi' warm water an' soap. Come awa',
Bob