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 shifted a point.  Lost in the romance, Mr. Traill took no note of the passing 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 attitude.  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.”

“Whaur are ye gangin’?” cried Auld Jock.  He was wide awake, with burning, suspicious eyes fixed on his host.

“Sit you down, man, with your back to my siller.  I’m going for a doctor.”  The noise of the storm, as he opened the door, prevented his hearing the frightened protest: 

“Dinna ging!”

The rain had turned to sleet, and Mr. Traill had trouble in keeping his feet.  He looked first into the famous Book Hunter’s Stall next door, on the chance of finding a medical student.  The place was open, but it had no customers.  He went on to the bridge, but there the sheriff’s court, the Martyr’s church, the society halls and all the smart shops were closed, their dark fronts lighted fitfully by flaring gas-lamps.  The bitter night had driven all Edinburgh to private cover.

From the rear came a clear whistle.  Some Heriot laddie who, being not entirely a “puir orphan,” but only “faderless” and, therefore, living outside the school with his mother, had been kept after nightfall because of ill-prepared lessons or misbehavior.  Mr. Traill turned, passed his own door, and went on southward into Forest Road, that skirted the long arm of the kirkyard.

From the Burghmuir, all the way to the Grassmarket and the Cowgate, was downhill.  So, with arms winged, and stout legs spread wide and braced, Geordie Ross was sliding gaily homeward, his knitted tippet a gallant pennant behind.  Here was a Mercury for an urgent errand.