north. It was a
drowsy day, and in that atmosphere of shag and crowded humanity I felt
my eyes closing. I had a short nap, and woke to find that Mr Linklater
had changed his seat and was now beside me.

'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