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Page 10
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.
It's a hot mutton broo wi' porridge in it, an' bits o' meat to
tak' the cauld oot o' yer auld banes."
And there, the plate was whisked away, and the cover lifted from
a bubbling pot, and the kettle was over the fire for the brewing
of tea. At a peremptory order the soaked boots and stockings were
off, and dry socks found in the kerchief bundle. Auld Jock was
used to taking orders from his superiors, and offered no
resistance to being hustled after this manner into warmth and
good cheer. Besides, who could have withstood that flood of
homely speech on which the good landlord came right down to the
old shepherd's humble level? Such warm feeling was established
that Mr. Traill quite forgot his usual caution and certain
well-known prejudices of old country bodies.
"Noo," he said cheerfully, as he set the hot broth on the table,
"ye maun juist hae a doctor."
A doctor is the last resort of the unlettered poor. The very
threat of one to the Scotch peasant of a half-century ago was a
sentence of death. Auld Jock blanched, and he shook so that he
dropped his spoon. Mr. Traill hastened to undo the mischief.
"It's no' a doctor ye'll be needing, ava, but a bit dose o'
physic an' a bed in the infirmary a day or twa."
"I wullna gang to the infairmary. It's juist for puir toon bodies
that are aye ailin' an' deein'." Fright and resentment lent the
silent old man an astonishing eloquence for the moment. "Ye wadna
gang to the infairmary yer ainsel', an' tak' charity."
"Would I no'? I would go if I so much as cut my sma' finger; and
I would let a student laddie bind it up for me."
"Weel, ye're a saft ane," said Auld Jock.
It was a terrible word--"saft!" John Traill flushed darkly, and
relapsed into discouraged silence. Deep down in his heart he knew
that a regiment of soldiers from the Castle could not take him
alive, a free patient, into the infirmary.
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