He turned an angry back on the sergeant and helped Geordie lift Bobby onto Mrs. Brown's braided hearth-rug and carry the improvised litter up to the lodge. In the kitchen the little dog was lowered into a hot bath, dried, and rubbed with liniments under his fleece. After his lacerated feet had been cleaned and dressed with healing ointments and tied up, Bobby was wrapped in Mistress Jeanie's best flannel petticoat and laid on the hearth-rug, a very comfortable wee dog, who enjoyed his breakfast of broth and porridge. Mr. Brown, hearing the commotion and perishing of curiosity, demanded that some one should come and help him out of bed. As no attention was paid to him he managed to get up himself and to hobble out to the kitchen just as Mr. Traill's ain medical man came in. Bobby's spine was examined again, the tail and toes nipped, the heart tested, and all the soft parts of his body pressed and punched, in spite of the little dog's vigorous objections to these indignities. “Except for sprains and bruises the wee dog is all right. Came down Castle Crag in the fog, did he? He's a clever and plucky little chap, indeed, and deserving of a hero medal to hang on the Lord Provost's collar. You've done very well, Mr. Ross. Just take as good care of him for a week or so and he could do the gallant deed again.” Mr. Brown listened to the story of Bobby's adventures with a mingled look of disgust at the foolishness of men, pride in Bobby's prowess, and resentment at having been left out of the drama of the night before. “It's maist michty, noo, Maister Traill, that ye wad tak' the leeberty o' leein' to me,” he complained. “It was a gude lee or a bad nicht for an ill man. Geordie will tell you that a mind at ease is worth four shullings, and I'm charging you naething. Eh, man, you're deeficult to please.” As he went out into the kirkyard Mr. Traill stopped to reflect on a strange thing: “'You've done very well, Mr. Ross.' Weel, weel, how the laddies do grow up! But I'm no' going to admit it to Geordie.” Another thought, over which he chuckled, sent him off to find the sergeant. The soldier was tramping gloomily about in the wet, to the demoralization of his beautiful boots. “Man, since a stormy nicht eight years ago last November I've aye been looking for a bigger weel meaning fule than my ain sel'. You're the man, so if you'll just shak' hands we'll say nae more about it.” He did not explain this cryptic remark, but he went on to assure the sorry soldier that Bobby had got no serious hurt and would soon be as well as ever. They had turned toward the gate when a stranger with a newspaper in his hand peered mildly around the kirk and inquired “Do ye ken whaur's the sma' dog, man?” As Mr. Traill continued to stare at him he explained, patiently: “It's Greyfriars Bobby, the bittie terrier the Laird Provost gied the collar to. Hae ye no' seen 'The Scotsman' the day?”