"Man," said Hector, "I like ye. Ye're a lad o' promise; I'll mak' a man o' ye yet."
We were approaching another cottage on the outskirts of the town, and once again Hector assumed the role of the packman and tapped at the door. When he rejoined me he said: "I ha'e had some luck this time, but no' muckle, because a' I sold was a dream-book. Awfu' trash, as ye weel ken." He groaned as though in anguish of spirit. "And noo," he said, "we'd better pairt company. The brig' end o' Dumfries is on this side o' the water."
So we parted, and I walked on ahead, until as I descended a steep hill I saw the end of the bridge before me. I found Mitchell's Close without difficulty and entered it. The houses within it were flinging back the glare of the sun from their whitewashed walls. I knocked at the second door on the left, and after a little it was opened by an old woman. Holding the latch in her hand, she stood between the half-open door and the wall as though to block the passage.
"Wha may ye be?" she said. "Ye ha'ena' a kent face."
"I am," I said, speaking low, "a friend of Hector the packman."
She threw the door wide open at once, saying, "Come awa ben." I entered, and immediately she shut and barred the door behind us, and led the way into the kitchen, saying: "Ony frien' o' Hector the packman is welcome here. Can I get ye onything to eat?"
As I had not broken my fast since leaving New Abbey, I was ready to do justice to the meal which she made haste to spread before me. Remembering Hector's warning, I held my tongue, and as she waited upon me the old woman kept her counsel to herself. I could see that she was studying me closely; and when the meal was over she said, suddenly:
"So ye're a frien' o' Hector's, are ye? Whaur's the man noo?"
"When I left him," I replied, "he was making his way to his own lodging."
"Nae doot, nae doot; and by this time I jalouse he's on the road to Locharbriggs."