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Page 50
"He isna so ill, noo, Maister Traill, but I wadna advise ye to
hae muckle to say to 'im." Mistress Jeanie wore the arch look of
the wifie who is somewhat amused by a convalescent husband's ill
humors. "The pains grupped 'im sair, an' noo that he's easier
he'd see us a' hanged wi' pleesure. Is it onything by the
ordinar'?"
"Nae. It's just a sma' matter I can attend to my ainsel'. Do you
think he could be out the morn?"
"No' afore a week or twa, an' syne, gin the bonny sun comes oot
to bide a wee."
Mr. Traill left the kirkyard and went out to George Square to
call upon the minister of Greyfriars auld kirk. The errand was
unfruitful, and he was back in ten minutes, to spend the evening
alone, without even the consolation of Bobby's company, for the
little dog was unhappy outside the kirkyard after sunset. And he
took an unsettling thought to bed with him.
Here was a pretty kettle of fish, indeed, for a respected member
of a kirk and middle-aged business man to fry in. Through the
legal verbiage Mr. Traill made out that he was summoned to appear
before whatever magistrate happened to be sitting on the morrow
in the Burgh court, to answer to the charge of owning, or
harboring, one dog, upon which he had not paid the license tax of
seven shillings.
For all its absurdity it was no laughing matter. The municipal
court of Edinburgh was of far greater dignity than the ordinary
justice court of the United Kingdom and of America. The civic
bench was occupied, in turn, by no less a personage than the Lord
Provost as chief, and by five other magistrates elected by the
Burgh council from among its own membership. Men of standing in
business, legal and University circles, considered it an honor
and a duty to bring their knowledge and responsibility to bear on
the pettiest police cases.
It was morning before Mr. Traill had the glimmer of an idea to
take with him on this unlucky business. An hour before the
opening of court he crossed the bridge into High Street, which
was then as picturesquely Gothic and decaying and overpopulated
as the Cowgate, but high-set, wind-swept and sun-searched, all
the way up the sloping mile from Holyrood Palace to the Castle.
The ridge fell away steeply, through rifts of wynds and closes,
to the Cowgate ravine on the one hand, and to Princes Street's
parked valley on the other. Mr. Traill turned into the narrow
descent of Warriston Close. Little more than a crevice in the
precipice of tall, old buildings, on it fronted a business house
whose firm name was known wherever the English language was read:
"W. and R. Chambers, Publishers."
From top to bottom the place was gas-lit, even on a sunny spring
morning, and it hummed and clattered with printing-presses. No
one was in the little anteroom to the editorial offices beside a
young clerk, but at sight of a red-headed, freckle-faced Heriot
laddie of Bobby's puppyhood days Mr. Traill's spirits rose.
"A gude day to you, Sandy McGregor; and whaur's your auld twin
conspirator, Geordie Ross?"
"He's a student in the Medical College, Mr. Traill. He went by
this meenit to the Botanical Garden for herbs my grandmither has
aye known without books." Sandy grinned in appreciation of this
foolishness, but he added, with Scotch shrewdness, "It's gude for
the book-prenting beesiness."
"It is so," the landlord agreed, heartily. "But you must no' be
forgetting that the Chambers brothers war book readers and
sellers before they war publishers. You are weel set up in life,
laddie, and Heriot's has pulled the warst of the burrs from your
tongue. I'm wanting to see Glenormiston."
"Mr. William Chambers is no' in. Mr. Robert is aye in, but he's
no' liking to be fashed about sma' things."
"I'll no' trouble him. It's the Lord Provost I'm wanting, on
ofeecial beesiness." He requested Sandy to ask Glenormiston, if
he came in, to come over to the Burgh court and spier for Mr.
Traill.
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