out of his dripping plaid and greatcoat and spread them to the
blaze. Auld Jock found a dry, knitted Tam-o'-Shanter bonnet in
his little bundle and set it on his head. It was a moment or two
before he could speak without the humiliating betrayal of
chattering teeth.

"Ay, it's a misty nicht," he admitted, with caution.

"Misty! Man, it's raining like all the seven deils were abroad."
Having delivered himself of this violent opinion, Mr. Traill fell
into his usual philosophic vein. "I have sma' patience with the
Scotch way of making little of everything. If Noah had been a
Lowland Scot he'd 'a' said the deluge was juist fair wet."'

He laughed at his own wit, his thin-featured face and keen gray
eyes lighting up to a kindliness that his brusque speech denied
in vain. He had a fluency of good English at command that he
would have thought ostentatious to use in speaking with a simple
country body.

Auld Jock stared at Mr. Traill and pondered the matter. By and by
he asked: "Wasna the deluge fair wet?"

The landlord sighed but, brought to book like that, admitted that
it was. Conversation flagged, however, while he busied himself
with toasting a smoked herring, and dragging roasted potatoes
from the little iron oven that was fitted into the brickwork of
the fireplace beside the grate.

Bobby was attending to his own entertainment. The familiar place