Part 2 (1/2)
”Young is aye the time to teach a dog or a bairn that life is no' all play. Man, you should put a sma' terrier at the vermin an' mak' him usefu'.”
”It's eneugh, gin he's gude company for the wee la.s.sie wha's fair fond o' 'im,” Auld Jock answered, briefly. This was a strange sentiment from the work-broken old man who, for himself, would have held ornamental idleness sinful. He finished his supper in brooding silence. At last he broke out in a peevish irritation that only made his grief at parting with Bobby more apparent to an understanding man like Mr. Traill.
”I dinna ken what to do wi' 'im i' an Edinburgh lodgin' the nicht.
The auld wifie I lodge wi' is dour by the ordinar', an' wadna bide 'is blatterin'. I couldna get 'im past 'er auld een, an' thae terriers are aye barkin' aboot naethin' ava.”
Mr. Traill's eyes sparkled at recollection of an apt literary story to which Dr. John Brown had given currency. Like many Edinburgh shopkeepers, Mr. Traill was a man of superior education and an omnivorous reader. And he had many customers from the near-by University to give him a fund of stories of Scotch writers and other worthies.
”You have a double plaid, man?”
”Ay. Ilka shepherd's got a twa-fold plaidie.” It seemed a foolish question to Auld Jock, but Mr. Traill went on blithely.
”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 la.s.sie 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 la.s.sie, 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 la.s.sie 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 compa.s.sed 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 sc.r.a.p 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 pa.s.sages 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, compa.s.sionately; 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 s.h.i.+fted a point. Lost in the romance, Mr. Traill took no note of the pa.s.sing time or of his quiet guests until he felt a little tug at his trouser-leg.
”Eh, laddie?” he questioned. Up the little dog rose in the begging att.i.tude. Then, with a sharp bark, he dashed back to his master.
Something was very wrong, indeed. Auld Jock had sunk down in his seat.
His arms hung helplessly over the end and back of the settle, and his legs were sprawled limply before him. The bonnet that he always wore, outdoors and in, had fallen from his scant, gray locks, and his head had dropped forward on his chest. His breathing was labored, and he muttered in his sleep.
In a moment Mr. Traill was inside his own greatcoat, storm boots and bonnet. At the door he turned back. The shop was unguarded. Although Greyfriars Place lay on the hilltop, with the sanctuary of the kirkyard behind it, and the University at no great distance in front, it was but a step up from the thief-infested gorge of the Cowgate. The landlord locked his moneydrawer, pushed his easy-chair against it, and roused Auld Jock so far as to move him over from the settle. The chief responsibility he laid on the anxious little dog, that watched his every movement.
”Lie down, Bobby, and mind Auld Jock. And you're no' a gude dog if you canna bark to waken the dead in the kirkyard, if ony strange body comes about.”