one o'clock
A rock-rimmed quarry pit , in the very heart of Old Edinburgh , the Grassmarket was a place of historic echoes . The yelp of a little dog there would scarce seem worthy of record . More in harmony with its stirring history was the report of the time-gun . At one o'clock every day , there was a puff of smoke high up in the blue or gray or squally sky , then a deafening crash and a back fire fusillade of echoes . The oldest frequenter of the market never got used to it . On Wednesday , as the shot broke across the babel of shrill bargaining , every man in the place jumped , and not one was quicker of recovery than wee Bobby . Instantly ashamed , as an intelligent little dog who knew the import of the gun should be , Bobby denied his alarm in a tiny pink yawn of boredom .