red tunic, pipe-clayed belt, and winking buttons. He ordered tea
and toast and Dundee marmalade with an air of gay well-being that
was no less than a personal affront to a man in Mr. Traill's
frame of mind. Trouble brewed with the tea that Ailie Lindsey, a
tall lassie of fifteen, but shy and elfish as of old, brought in
on a tray from the scullery.

When this spick-and-span non-commissioned officer demanded Mr.
Traill's price for the little dog that took his eye, the landlord
replied curtly that Bobby was not for sale. The soldier was
insolently amused.

"That's vera surprisin'. I aye thoucht an Edinburgh shopkeeper
wad sell ilka thing he had, an' tak' the siller to bed wi' 'im to
keep 'im snug the nicht."

Mr. Traill returned, with brief sarcasm, that "his lairdship" had
been misinformed.

"Why wull ye no' sell the bit dog?" the man insisted.

The badgered landlord turned upon him and answered at length,
after the elaborate manner of a minister who lays his sermon off
in sections

"First: he's no' my dog to sell. Second: he's a dog of rare
discreemination, and is no' like to tak' you for a master. Third:
you soldiers aye have with you a special brand of shulling-a-day
impudence. And, fourth and last, my brither: I'm no' needing your
siller, and I can manage to do fair weel without your