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.

Bobby shook himself on the hearth to free his rain-coat of surplus water.  To the landlord’s dry “We’re no’ needing a shower in the house.  Lie down, Bobby,” he wagged his tail politely, as a sign that he heard.  But, as Auld Jock did not repeat the order, he ignored it and scampered busily about the room, leaving little trails of wet behind him.

This grill-room of Traill’s place was more like the parlor of a country inn, or a farm-house kitchen if there had been a built-in bed or two, than a restaurant in the city.  There, a humble man might see his herring toasted, his bannocks baked on the oven-top, or his tea brewed to his liking.  On such a night as this the landlord would pull the settle out of the inglenook to the set before the solitary guest a small table, and keep the kettle on the hob.

“Spread yoursel’ on both sides o’ the fire, man.  There’ll be nane to keep us company, I’m thinking.  Ilka man that has a roof o’ his ain will be wearing it for a bonnet the nicht.”

As there was no answer to this, the skilled conversational angler dropped a bit of bait that the wariest man must rise to.

“That’s a vera intelligent bit dog, Auld Jock.  He was here with the time-gun spiering for you.  When he didna find you he greeted like a bairn.”

Auld Jock, huddled in the corner of the settle, so near the fire that his jacket smoked, took so long a time to find an answer that Mr. Traill looked at him keenly as he set the wooden plate and pewter mug on the table.

“Man, you’re vera ill,” he cried, sharply.  In truth he was shocked and self-accusing because he had not observed Auld Jock’s condition before.

“I’m no’ so awfu’ ill,” came back in irritated denial, as if he had been accused of some misbehavior.

“Weel, it’s no’ a dry herrin’ ye’ll hae in my shop the nicht.  It’s a hot mutton broo wi’ porridge in it, an’ bits o’ meat to tak’ the cauld oot o’ yer auld banes.”