And there, the plate was whisked away, and the cover lifted from a bubbling pot, and the kettle was over the fire for the brewing of tea.  At a peremptory order the soaked boots and stockings were off, and dry socks found in the kerchief bundle.  Auld Jock was used to taking orders from his superiors, and offered no resistance to being hustled after this manner into warmth and good cheer.  Besides, who could have withstood that flood of homely speech on which the good landlord came right down to the old shepherd’s humble level?  Such warm feeling was established that Mr. Traill quite forgot his usual caution and certain well-known prejudices of old country bodies.

“Noo,” he said cheerfully, as he set the hot broth on the table, “ye maun juist hae a doctor.”

A doctor is the last resort of the unlettered poor.  The very threat of one to the Scotch peasant of a half-century ago was a sentence of death.  Auld Jock blanched, and he shook so that he dropped his spoon.  Mr. Traill hastened to undo the mischief.

“It’s no’ a doctor ye’ll be needing, ava, but a bit dose o’ physic an’ a bed in the infirmary a day or twa.”

“I wullna gang to the infairmary.  It’s juist for puir toon bodies that are aye ailin’ an’ deein’.”  Fright and resentment lent the silent old man an astonishing eloquence for the moment.  “Ye wadna gang to the infairmary yer ainsel’, an’ tak’ charity.”

“Would I no’?  I would go if I so much as cut my sma’ finger; and I would let a student laddie bind it up for me.”

“Weel, ye’re a saft ane,” said Auld Jock.

It was a terrible word—­“saft!” John Traill flushed darkly, and relapsed into discouraged silence.  Deep down in his heart he knew that a regiment of soldiers from the Castle could not take him alive, a free patient, into the infirmary.

But what was one to do but “lee,” right heartily, for the good of this very sick, very poor, homeless old man on a night of pitiless storm?  That he had “lee’d” to no purpose and got a “saft” name for it was a blow to his pride.

Hearing the clatter of fork and spoon, Bobby trotted from behind the bar and saved the day of discomfiture.  Time for dinner, indeed!  Up he came on his hind legs and politely begged his master for food.  It was the prettiest thing he could do, and the landlord delighted in him.

“Gie ‘im a penny plate o’ the gude broo,” said Auld Jock, and he took the copper coin from his pocket to pay for it.  He forgot his own meal in watching the hungry little creature eat.  Warmed and softened by Mr. Traill’s kindness, and by the heartening food, Auld Jock betrayed a thought that had rankled in the depths of his mind all day.

“Bobby isna ma ain dog.”  His voice was dull and unhappy.

Ah, here was misery deeper than any physical ill!  The penny was his, a senseless thing; but, poor, old, sick, hameless and kinless, the little dog that loved and followed him “wasna his ain.”  To hide the huskiness in his own voice Mr. Traill relapsed into broad, burry Scotch.