"AND ALL BUT HE DEPARTED"
The little inn seemed to have no guests except the traveller from beyond the sea. But no such tavern is ever long deserted, for the Scotch nature, while it may be dry, is ever loyal. Michael Blake had read but a line or two of the Edinburgh Scotsman, ten days of age, when a man walked solemnly in and sat down beside him. His face, his breath, and especially his nose, bore eloquent testimony to the aforesaid loyalty of his nature. He bade Mr. Blake a cheerful good-morning, glancing at the same time towards the counter beneath which the liquid necessities were stored.
"It's a fine mornin'," he began.
"A beautiful day," assented Mr. Blake.
"Ye'll no' live aboot these pairts?" inquired the other.
"No, I live far from here."
"Ye'll mebbe be frae Ameriky?" ventured his interrogator, closing in upon him.
"Yes, I live in Canada," was the response.
"Canady," said the man. "We're gey prood o' Canady the noo. I ken't a man once wha went to Canady. I had a drink wi' him afore he went," he continued, his eye lighting with the dewy memory, "ye'll likely ken him? Oliver was his name, Wattie Oliver, a bow-leggit wee body."
"I cannot say I ever met with him," replied Mr. Blake. "Canada is larger than you think over here."