"Spread yoursel' on both sides o' the fire, man. There'll be nane
to keep us company, I'm thinking. Ilka man that has a roof o' his
ain will be wearing it for a bonnet the nicht."

As there was no answer to this, the skilled conversational angler
dropped a bit of bait that the wariest man must rise to.

"That's a vera intelligent bit dog, Auld Jock. He was here with
the time-gun spiering for you. When he didna find you he greeted
like a bairn."

Auld Jock, huddled in the corner of the settle, so near the fire
that his jacket smoked, took so long a time to find an answer
that Mr. Traill looked at him keenly as he set the wooden plate
and pewter mug on the table.

"Man, you're vera ill," he cried, sharply. In truth he was
shocked and self-accusing because he had not observed Auld Jock's
condition before.

"I'm no' so awfu' ill," came back in irritated denial, as if he
had been accused of some misbehavior.

"Weel, it's no' a dry herrin' ye'll hae in my shop the nicht.
It's a hot mutton broo wi' porridge in it, an' bits o' meat to
tak' the cauld oot o' yer auld banes."

And there, the plate was whisked away, and the cover lifted from
a bubbling pot, and the kettle was over the fire for the brewing