“Whaur is it you have your lodging, Jock?” the landlord asked, sharply, for the man looked so dazed that his understanding was not to be reached easily. He got the indefinite information that it was at the top of one of the tall, old tenements “juist aff the Coogate.”
“A lang climb for an auld man,” John Traill said, compassionately; then, optimistic as usual, “but it's a lang climb or a foul smell, in the poor quarters of Edinburgh.”
“Ay. It's weel aboon the fou' smell.” With some comforting thought that he did not confide to Mr. Traill but that ironed lines out of his old face, Auld Jock went to sleep again. Well, the landlord reflected, he could remain there by the fire until the closing hour or later, if need be, and by that time the storm might ease a bit, so that he could get to his lodging without another wetting.
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: