hat curved upward around the lower end
of Greyfriars kirkyard, water poured upon him from the heavy timbered
gallery of the Cunzie Neuk, once the royal mint. The carting office that
occupied the street floor was closed, or Auld Jock would have sought
shelter there. He struggled up the rise, made slippery by rain and
grime. Then, as the street turned southward in its easy curve, there was
some shelter from the house walls. But Auld Jock was quite exhausted
and incapable of caring for himself. In the ancient guildhall of the
candlemakers, at the top of the Row, was another carting office and
Harrow Inn, a resort of country carriers. The man would have gone in
there where he was quite unknown or, indeed, he might even have lain
down in the bleak court that gave access to the tenements above, but for
Bobby's persistent and cheerful barking, begging and nipping.

"Maister, maister!" he said, as plainly as a little dog could speak,
"dinna bide here. It's juist a stap or two to food an' fire in' the cozy
auld ingleneuk."

And then, the level roadway won at last, there was the railing of the
bridge-approach to cling to, on the one hand, and the upright bars of
the kirkyard gate on the other. By the help of these and the urging of
wee Bobby, Auld Jock came the short, steep way up out of the market, to
the row of lighted shops in Greyfriars Place.

With the wind at the back and above the housetops, Mr. Traill stood
bare-headed in a dry haven of peace in his doorway, firelight behind
him, and welcome in his shrewd gray eyes. If Auld Jock had shown any
intention of going by, it is not impossible that the landlord of Ye Olde
Greyfriars Dining-Rooms might have dragged him in bodily. The storm had
driven all his customers home. For an hour there had not been a soul in
the place to speak to, and it was so entirely necessary for John Traill
to hear his own voice that he had been known, in such straits, to talk
to himself. Auld Jock was not an inspiring auditor, but a deal better
than naething; and, if he proved hopeless, entertainment was to be found
in Bobby. So Mr. Traill bustled in before his guests, poked the open
fire into leaping flames, and heaped it up skillfully at the back with
fresh coals. The good landlord turned from his hospitable task to find
Auld Jock streaming and shaking on the hearth.

"Man, but you're wet!" he exclaimed. He hustled the old shepherd out of
his dripping plaid and greatcoat and spread them to the bla