While Ailie and Tammy were collecting the price of his ransom
Bobby was exploring the intricately cut-up interior of old St.
Giles, sniffing at the rifts in flimsily plastered partitions
that the Lord Provost pointed out to Mr. Traill. Rats were in
those crumbling walls. If there had been a hole big enough to
admit him, the plucky little dog would have gone in after them.
Forbidden to enlarge one, Bobby could only poke his indignant
muzzle into apertures, and brace himself as for a fray. And, at
the very smell of him, there were such squeakings and scamperings
in hidden runways as to be almost beyond a terrier's endurance.
The Lord Provost watched him with an approving eye.
"When these partitions are tak'n down Bobby would be vera useful
in ridding our noble old cathedral of vermin. But that will not
be in this wee Highlander's day nor, I fear, in mine." About the
speech of this Peebles man, who had risen from poverty to
distinction, learning, wealth, and many varieties of usefulness,
there was still an engaging burr. And his manner was so simple
that he put the humblest at his ease.
There had been no formality about the meeting at all.
Glenormiston was standing in a rear doorway of the cathedral near
the Regent's Tomb, looking out into the sunny square of
Parliament Close, when Mr. Traill and Bobby appeared. Near
seventy, at that time, a backward sweep of white hair and a
downward flow of square-cut, white beard framed a boldly featured
face and left a generous mouth uncovered.
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