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Page 9
Had not Bobby gone before and barked, and run back, again and
again, and jumped up on Auld Jock's legs, the man might never
have won his way across the drowned place, in the inky blackness
and against the slanted blast of icy rain. When he gained the
foot of Candlemakers Row, a crescent of tall, old houses that
curved upward around the lower end of Greyfriars kirkyard, water
poured upon him from the heavy timbered gallery of the Cunzie
Neuk, once the royal mint. The carting office that occupied the
street floor was closed, or Auld Jock would have sought shelter
there. He struggled up the rise, made slippery by rain and grime.
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.
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