"
Instantly, as the magistrate half rose from the bench, the landlord
saw that he had gone too far, and put the court on the defensive. In an
easy, conversational tone, as if unaware of the point he had scored,
he asked if he might address his accuser on a personal matter. "We knew
each other weel as laddies. Davie, when you're in my neeborhood again on
a wet day, come in and dry yoursel' by my fire and tak' another cup o'
kindness for auld lang syne. You'll be all the better man for a lesson
in morals the bit dog can give you: no' to bite the hand that feeds
you."

The policeman turned purple. A ripple of merriment ran through the room.
The magistrate put his hand up to his mouth, and the clerk began to drop
pens. Before silence was restored a messenger laddie ran up with a note
for the bench. The magistrate read it with a look of relief, and nodded
to the man who had been listening from the doorway, but who disappeared
at once.

"The case is ordered continued. The defendant will be given time to
secure witnesses, and notified when to appear. The next case is called."

Somewhat dazed by this sudden turn, and annoyed by the delayed
settlement of the affair, Mr. Traill hastened from the court-room. As he
gained the street he was overtaken by the messenger with a second note.
And there was a still more surprising turn that sent the landlord off up
swarming High Street, across the bridge, and on to his snug little place
of business, with the face and the heart of a school-boy. When Bobby,
draggled by three days of wet weather, came in for his dinner, Mr.
Traill scanned him critically and in some perplexity. At the end of
the day's work, as Ailie was dropping her quaint curtsy and giving her
adored employer a shy "gude nicht," he had a sudden thought that made
him call her back.

"Did you ever give a bit dog a washing, lassie?"

"Ye mean Bobby, Maister Traill? Nae, I didna." Her eyes sparkled. "But
Tammy's hauded 'im for Maister Brown, an' he says it's sonsie to gie the
bonny wee a washin'."

"Weel, Mr. Brown is fair ill, and there has been foul weather. Bobby's
getting to look like a poor 'gaen aboot' dog. Have him at the kirkyard
gate at a quarter to eight o'clock the morn looking like a leddy's pet
and I'll dance a Highland fling at your wedding."

"Are ye gangin' to tak' Bobby on a picnic, Maister Traill?"

He answered with a mock solemnity and a twinkle in his eyes that
mystified the little maid. "Nae, lassie