A bitter smile crept across his face. He looked again at the picture now lying crushed in his hand.
“Ye canna say I didna try; ye canna ask me to agin,” he muttered, and slipped it into his pocket. “Niver agin, Wullie; not if the Queen were to ask it.”
Then he went out into the gloom and drizzle, still smiling the same bitter smile.
That night, when it came to closing-time at the Sylvester Arms, Jem Burton found a little gray-haired figure lying on the floor in the tap-room. At the little man's head lay a great dog.
“Yo' beast!” said the righteous publican, regarding the figure of his best customer with fine scorn. Then catching sight of a photograph in the little man's hand:
“Oh, yo're that sort, are yo', foxy?” he leered. “Gie us a look at 'er,” and he tried to disengage the picture from the other's grasp. But at the attempt the great dog rose, bared his teeth, and assumed such a diabolical expression that the big landlord retreated hurriedly behind the bar.
“Two on ye!” he shouted viciously, rattling his heels; “beasts baith!”