Then, as the street turned southward in its easy curve, there was some shelter from the house walls.But Auld Jock was quite exhausted and incapable of caring for himself.In the ancient guildhall of the candlemakers, at the top of the Row, was another carting office and Harrow Inn, a resort of country carriers.The man would have gone in there where he was quite unknown or, indeed, he might even have lain down in the bleak court that gave access to the tenements above, but for Bobby's persistent and cheerful barking, begging and nipping.
"Maister, maister!" he said, as plainly as a little dog could speak, "dinna bide here.It's juist a stap or two to food an'
fire in' the cozy auld ingleneuk."
And then, the level.roadway won at last, there was the railing of the bridge-approach to cling to, on the one hand, and the upright bars of the kirkyard gate on the other.By the help of these and the urging of wee Bobby, Auld Jock came the short, steep way up out of the market, to the row of lighted shops in Greyfriars Place.
With the wind at the back and above the housetops, Mr.Traill stood bare-headed in a dry haven of peace in his doorway, firelight behind him, and welcome in his shrewd gray eyes.If Auld Jock had shown any intention of going by, it is not impossible that the landlord of Ye Olde Greyfriars Dining-Rooms might have dragged him in bodily.The storm had driven all his customers home.For an hour there had not been a soul in the place to speak to, and it was so entirely necessary for John Traill to hear his own voice that he had been known, in such straits, to talk to himself.Auld Jock was not an inspiring auditor, but a deal better than naething ; and, if he proved hopeless, entertainment was to be found in Bobby.So Mr.Traill bustled in before his guests, poked the open fire into leaping flames, and heaped it up skillfully at the back with fresh coals.
The good landlord turned from his hospitable task to find Auld Jock streaming and shaking on the hearth.
"Man, but you're wet!" he exclaimed.He hustled the 'old shepherd out of his dripping plaid and greatcoat and spread them to the blaze.Auld Jock found a dry, knitted Tam-o'-Shanter bonnet in his little bundle and set it on his head.It was a moment or two before he could speak without the humiliating betrayal of chattering teeth.
"Ay, it's a misty nicht," he admitted, with caution.
"Misty! Man, it's raining like all the seven deils were abroad."Having delivered himself of this violent opinion, Mr.Traill fell into his usual philosophic vein."I have sma' patience with the Scotch way of making little of everything.If Noah had been a Lowland Scot he'd 'a' said the deluge was juist fair wet."'
He laughed at his own wit, his thin-featured face and keen gray eyes lighting up to a kindliness that his brusque speech denied in vain.He had a fluency of good English at command that he would.have thought ostentatious to use in speaking with a simple country body.
Auld Jock stared at Mr.Traill and pondered the matter.By and by he asked: "Wasna the deluge fair wet?"The landlord sighed but, brought to book like that, admitted that it was.Conversation flagged, however, while he busied himself with toasting a smoked herring, and dragging roasted potatoes from the little iron oven that was fitted into the brickwork of the fireplace beside the grate.
Bobby was attending to his own entertainment.The familiar place wore a new and enchanting aspect, and needed instant exploration.
By day it was fitted with tables, picketed by chairs and all manner of boots.Noisy and crowded, a little dog that wandered about there was liable to be trodden upon.On that night of storm it was a vast, bright place, so silent one could hear the ticking of the wag-at-the-wa' clock, the crisp crackling of the flames, and the snapping of the coals.The uncovered deal tables were set back in a double line along one wall, with the chairs piled on top, leaving a wide passage of freshly scrubbed and sanded oaken floor from the door to the fireplace.Firelight danced on the dark old wainscoting and high, carved overmantel, winked on rows of drinking mugs and metal covers over cold meats on the buffet, and even picked out the gilt titles on the backs of a shelf of books in Mr.Traill's private corner behind the bar.
Bobby shook himself on the hearth to free his rain-coat of surplus water.To the landlord's dry "We're no' needing a shower in the house.Lie down, Bobby," he wagged his tail politely, as a sign that he heard.But, as Auld Jock did not repeat the order, he ignored it and scampered busily about the room, leaving little trails of wet behind him.
This grill-room of Traill's place was more like the parlor of a country inn, or a farm-house kitchen if there had been a built-in bed or two, than a restaurant in the city.There, a humble man might see his herring toasted, his bannocks baked on the oven-top, or his tea brewed to his liking.On such a night as this the landlord would pull the settle out of the inglenook to the set before the solitary guest a small table, and keep the kettle on the hob.
"Spread yoursel' on both sides o' the fire, man.There'll be nane to keep us company, I'm thinking.Ilka man that has a roof o' his ain will be wearing it for a bonnet the nicht."As there was no answer to this, the skilled conversational angler dropped a bit of bait that the wariest man must rise to.
"That's a vera intelligent bit dog, Auld Jock.He was here with the time-gun spiering for you.When he didna find you he greeted like a bairn."Auld Jock, huddled in the corner of the settle, so near the fire that his jacket smoked, took so long a time to find an answer that Mr.Traill looked at him keenly as he set the wooden plate and pewter mug on the table.
"Man, you're vera ill," he cried, sharply.In truth he was shocked and self-accusing because he had not observed Auld Jock's condition before.
"I'm no' so awfu' ill," came back in irritated denial, as if he had been accused of some misbehavior.
"Weel, it's no' a dry herrin' ye'll hae in my shop the nicht.
