“Yes, sir—Rotherhithe,” said the tramp, eating as if he had not eaten for some time.
“Ah, I’ve been often there myself—a fine place,” said the gentleman, with kindling eyes; and then they talked pleasantly of London and its attractions, the gentleman never once showing by word or look that he considered the tramp his inferior. At length he rose to go, took up his gun and paid the toll-keeper, and then, with a pleasant nod to both toll-keeper and tramp, he walked off towards the town.
The tramp looked after him in silence, munching the while at one of the biscuits.
“Who is that?” he said at length, with less gloom on his face and bitterness in his tones.
“Oh, that’s young Gowlieden.”
“Gowlieden? Good heavens! what a name to go to bed with!” said the tramp. “Well, anyway, he’s a good fellow; God bless him, and send more of his kind into this hard world!”
“Gowlieden isn’t his real name,” said the toll-keeper with a smile. “It’s the name of one of his father’s estates, and it’s our fashion here in Scotland to give the big folks the name of their land. That’s the heir, you know, and we call him young Gowlieden. His real name is Stephen Barbour. They live at a place called Frearton Hall, on the other side of the town.”
“What!”
The tramp had started to his feet, and given out the word with a shout which almost drove the breath out of the toll-keeper’s body.
“Yes, Frearton Hall—what’s wrong with that?” stammered the toll-keeper.