Mr. Traill talked to him as he might have reasoned with a bright bairn. Bobby listened patiently, but remained of the same mind. At last he moved away, disappointed in this human person, discouraged, but undefeated in his purpose. He lay down by the door. Mr. Traill watched him, for if any chance late comer opened the door the masterless little dog would be out into the perils of the street. Bobby knew what doors were for and, very likely, expected some such release. He waited a long time patiently. Then he began to run back and forth. He put his paws upon Mr. Traill and whimpered and cried. Finally he howled. It was a dreadful, dismal, heartbroken howl that echoed back from the walls. He howled continuously, until the landlord, quite distracted, and concerned about the peace of his neighbors, thrust Bobby into the dark scullery at the rear, and bade him stop his noise. For fully ten minutes the dog was quiet. He was probably engaged in exploring his new quarters to find an outlet. Then he began to howl again. It was truly astonishing that so small a dog could make so large a noise. A battle was on between the endurance of the man and the persistence of the terrier. Mr. Traill was speculating on which was likely to be victor in the contest, when the front door was opened and the proprietor of the Book Hunter's Stall put in a bare, bald head and the abstracted face of the book-worm that is mildly amused. “Have you tak'n to a dog at your time o' life, Mr. Traill?” “Ay, man, and it would be all right if the bit dog would just tak' to me.” This pleasantry annoyed a good man who had small sense of humor, and he remarked testily “The barkin' disturbs my customers so they canna read.” The place was a resort for student laddies who had to be saving of candles. “That's no' right,” the landlord admitted, sympathetically. “'Reading mak'th a full man.' Eh, what a deeference to the warld if Robbie Burns had aye preferred a book to a bottle.” The bookseller refused to be beguiled from his just cause of complaint into the flowery meads of literary reminiscences and speculations. “You'll stop that dog's cleaving noise, Mr. Traill, or I'll appeal to the Burgh police.” The landlord returned a bland and child-like smile. “You'd be weel within your legal rights to do it, neebor.”