|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 12
"There's a pocket in the plaid--ane end left open at the side to
mak' a pouch? Nae doubt you've carried mony a thing in that
pouch?"
"Nae, no' so mony. Juist the new-born lambs."
"Weel, Sir Walter had a shepherd's plaid, and there was a bit
lassie he was vera fond of Syne, when he had been at the writing
a' the day, and was aff his heid like, with too mony thoughts,
he'd go across the town and fetch the bairnie to keep him
company. She was a weel-born lassie, sax or seven years auld, and
sma' of her age, but no' half as sma' as Bobby, I'm thinking." He
stopped to let this significant comparison sink into Auld Jock's
mind. "The lassie had nae liking for the unmannerly wind and snaw
of Edinburgh. So Sir Walter just happed her in the pouch of his
plaid, and tumbled her out, snug as a lamb and nane the wiser, in
the big room wha's walls were lined with books."
Auld Jock betrayed not a glimmer of intelligence as to the
personal bearing of the story, but he showed polite interest. "I
ken naethin' aboot Sir Walter or ony o' the grand folk." Mr.
Traill sighed, cleared the table in silence, and mended the fire.
It was ill having no one to talk to but a simple old body who
couldn't put two and two together and make four.
The landlord lighted his pipe meditatively, and he lighted his
cruisey lamp for reading. Auld Jock was dry and warm again; oh,
very, very warm, so that he presently fell into a doze. The
dining-room was so compassed on all sides but the front by
neighboring house and kirkyard wall and by the floors above, that
only a murmur of the storm penetrated it. It was so quiet,
indeed, that a tiny, scratching sound in a distant corner was
heard distinctly. A streak of dark silver, as of animated
mercury, Bobby flashed past. A scuffle, a squeak, and he was back
again, dropping a big rat at the landlord's feet and, wagging his
tail with pride.
"Weel done, Bobby! There's a bite and a bone for you here ony
time o' day you call for it. Ay, a sensible bit dog will attend
to his ain education and mak' himsel' usefu'."
Mr. Traill felt a sudden access of warm liking for the attractive
little scrap of knowingness and pluck. He patted the tousled
head, but Bobby backed away. He had no mind to be caressed by any
man beside his master. After a moment the landlord took "Guy
Mannering" down from the book-shelf. Knowing his "Waverley" by
heart, he turned at once to the passages about Dandie Dinmont and
his terriers--Mustard and Pepper and other spicy wee rascals.
"Ay, terriers are sonsie, leal dogs. Auld Jock will have ane true
mourner at his funeral. I would no' mind if--"
On impulse he got up and dropped a couple of hard Scotch buns,
very good dog-biscuit, indeed, into the pocket of Auld Jock's
greatcoat for Bobby. The old man might not be able to be out the
morn. With the thought in his mind that some one should keep a
friendly eye on the man, he mended the fire with such an
unnecessary clattering of the tongs that Auld Jock started from
his sleep with a cry.
"Whaur is it you have your lodging, Jock?" the landlord asked,
sharply, for the man looked so dazed that his understanding was
not to be reached easily. He got the indefinite information that
it was at the top of one of the tall, old tenements "juist aff
the Coogate."
"A lang climb for an auld man," John Traill said,
compassionately; then, optimistic as usual, "but it's a lang
climb or a foul smell, in the poor quarters of Edinburgh."
"Ay. It's weel aboon the fou' smell." With some comforting
thought that he did not confide to Mr. Traill but that ironed
lines out of his old face, Auld Jock went to sleep again. Well,
the landlord reflected, he could remain there by the fire until
the closing hour or later, if need be, and by that time the storm
might ease a bit, so that he could get to his lodging without
another wetting.
For an hour the place was silent, except for the falling clinkers
from the grate, the rustling of book-leaves, and the plumping of
rain on the windows, when the wind shifted a point. Lost in the
romance, Mr. Traill took no note of the passing time or of his
quiet guests until he felt a little tug at his trouser-leg.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|