The landlord had not. And there was the story, Bobby's, name heading quite a quarter of a broad column of fine print, and beginning with: “A very singular and interesting occurrence was brought to light in the Burgh court by the hearing of a summons in regard to a dog tax.” Bobby was a famous dog, and Mr. Traill came in for a goodly portion of reflected glory. He threw up his hands in dismay. “It's all over the toon, Sergeant.” Turning to the stranger, he assured him that Bobby was not to be seen. “He hurt himsel' coming down Castle Rock in the nicht, and is in the lodge with the caretaker, wha's fair ill. Hoo do I ken?” testily. “Weel, man, I'm Mr. Traill.” He saw at once how unwise was that admission, for he had to shake hands with the cordial stranger. And after dismissing him there was another at the gate who insisted upon going up to the lodge to see the little hero. Here was a state of things, indeed, that called upon all the powers of the resourceful landlord. “All the folk in Edinburgh will be coming, and the poor woman be deaved with their spiering.” And then he began to laugh. “Did you ever hear o' sic a thing as poetic justice, Sergeant? Nae, it's no' the kind you'll get in the courts of law. Weel, it's poetic justice for a birkie soldier, wha claims the airth and the fullness thereof, to have to tak' his orders from a sma' shopkeeper. Go up to the police office in St. Gila now and ask for an officer to stand at the gate here to answer questions, and to keep the folk awa' from the lodge.” He stood guard himself, and satisfied a score of visitors before the sergeant came back, and there was another instance of poetic justice, in the crestfallen Burgh policeman who had been sent with instructions to take his orders from the delighted landlord. “Eh, Davie, it's a lang lane that has nae turning. Ye're juist to stand here a' the day an' say to ilka body wha spiers for the dog: 'Ay, sir, Greyfriars Bobby's been leevin' i' the kirkyaird aucht years an' mair, an' Maister Traill's aye fed 'im i' the dining-rooms. Ay, the case was dismissed i' the Burgh coort. The Laird Provost gied a collar to the bit Skye because there's a meddlin' fule or twa amang the Burgh police wha'd be takin' 'im up. The doggie's i' the lodge wi' the caretaker, wha's fair ill, an' he canna be seen the day. But gang aroond the kirk an' ye can see Auld Jock's grave that he's aye guarded. There's nae stave to it, but it's neist to the fa'en table-tomb o' Mistress Jean Grant. A gude day to ye.' Hae ye got a' that, man? Weel, cheer up. Yell hae to say it nae mair than a thousand times or twa, atween noo an' nichtfa'.” He went away laughing at the penance that was laid upon his foe. The landlord felt so well satisfied with the world that he took another jaunty crack at the sergeant: “By richts, man, you ought to go to gaol, but I'll just fine you a shulling a month for Bobby's natural lifetime, to give the wee soldier a treat of a steak or a chop once a week.”