book trade, of which I knew nothing. He wanted to know on what
terms we sold 'juveniles', and what discount we gave the big
wholesalers, and what class of book we put out 'on sale'. I didn't
understand a word of his jargon, and I must have given myself
away badly, for he asked me questions about firms of which I had
never heard, and I had to make some kind of answer. I told myself
that the donkey was harmless, and that his opinion of me mattered
nothing, but as soon as I decently could I pretended to be absorbed
in the _Pilgrim's _Progress, a gaudy copy of which was among the
samples. It opened at the episode of Christian and Hopeful in the
Enchanted Ground, and in that stuffy carriage I presently followed
the example of Heedless and Too-Bold and fell sound asleep.
I was awakened by the train rumbling over the points of a little
moorland junction. Sunk in a pleasing lethargy, I sat with my eyes
closed, and then covertly took a glance at my companion. He had
abandoned the Missionary Child and was reading a little dun-
coloured book, and marking passages with a pencil. His face was
absorbed, and it was a new face, not the vacant, good-humoured
look of the garrulous bagman, but something shrewd, purposeful,
and formidable. I remained hunched up as if still sleeping, and tried
to see what the book was. But my eyes, good as they are, could
make out nothing of the text or title, except that I had a very
strong impression that that book was not written in the English tongue.

I woke abruptly, and leaned over to him. Quick as lightning he
slid his pencil up his sleeve and turned on me with a fatuous smile.

'What d'ye make o' this, Mr McCaskie? It's a wee book I picked
up at a roup along with fifty others. I paid five shillings for the lot.
It looks like Gairman, but in my young days they didna teach us