‘We’ll no get a Scotsman till Muirtown,’ he said.  ’Have ye nothing in your samples ye could give me to read?’

I had forgotten about the samples.  I opened the case and found the oddest collection of little books, all in gay bindings.  Some were religious, with names like Dew of Hermon and Cool Siloam; some were innocent narratives, How Tommy saved his Pennies, A Missionary Child in China, and Little Susie and her Uncle.  There was a Life of David Livingstone, a child’s book on sea-shells, and a richly gilt edition of the poems of one James Montgomery.  I offered the selection to Mr Linklater, who grinned and chose the Missionary Child.  ’It’s not the reading I’m accustomed to,’ he said.  ’I like strong meat—­Hall Caine and Jack London.  By the way, how d’ye square this business of yours wi’ the booksellers?  When I was in Matheson’s there would have been trouble if we had dealt direct wi’ the public like you.’

The confounded fellow started to talk about the details of the book trade, of which I knew nothing.  He wanted to know on what terms we sold ‘juveniles’, and what discount we gave the big wholesalers, and what class of book we put out ‘on sale’.  I didn’t understand a word of his jargon, and I must have given myself away badly, for he asked me questions about firms of which I had never heard, and I had to make some kind of answer.  I told myself that the donkey was harmless, and that his opinion of me mattered nothing, but as soon as I decently could I pretended to be absorbed in the Pilgrim’s Progress, a gaudy copy of which was among the samples.  It opened at the episode of Christian and Hopeful in the Enchanted Ground, and in that stuffy carriage I presently followed the example of Heedless and Too-Bold and fell sound asleep.  I was awakened by the train rumbling over the points of a little moorland junction.  Sunk in a pleasing lethargy, I sat with my eyes closed, and then covertly took a glance at my companion.  He had abandoned the Missionary Child and was reading a little dun-coloured book, and marking passages with a pencil.  His face was absorbed, and it was a new face, not the vacant, good-humoured look of the garrulous bagman, but something shrewd, purposeful, and formidable.  I remained hunched up as if still sleeping, and tried to see what the book was.  But my eyes, good as they are, could make out nothing of the text or title, except that I had a very strong impression that that book was not written in the English tongue.

I woke abruptly, and leaned over to him.  Quick as lightning he slid his pencil up his sleeve and turned on me with a fatuous smile.

‘What d’ye make o’ this, Mr McCaskie?  It’s a wee book I picked up at a roup along with fifty others.  I paid five shillings for the lot.  It looks like Gairman, but in my young days they didna teach us foreign languages.’

I took the thing and turned over the pages, trying to keep any sign of intelligence out of my face.  It was German right enough, a little manual of hydrography with no publisher’s name on it.  It had the look of the kind of textbook a Government department might issue to its officials.