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 compassed 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 scrap 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 passages 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, compassionately; 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.