“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.