til't!" he said. "Dinna ye see the twa reid horse?"
"Ay," answered Donal; "I see them weel eneuch, but I'm nane the wiser nor gien they war twa reid whauls.—Man," he went on, turning sharp round upon the fellow, "ye're no cawpable o' conceivin' the extent o' my ignorance! It's as rampant as the reid horse upo' your sign! I'll yield to naebody i' the amoont o' things I dinna ken!"
The man stared at him for a moment.
"I s' warran'," he said, "ye ken mair nor ye care to lat on!"
"An' what may that be ower the heid o' them?—A crest, ca' ye 't?" said Donal.
"It's a base pearl-beset," answered the landlord.
He had not a notion of what a base meant, or pearl-beset, yet prided himself on his knowledge of the words.
"Eh," returned Donal, "I took it for a skate!"
"A skate!" repeated the landlord with offended sneer, and turned towards the house.
"I was thinkin' to put up wi' ye the nicht, gien ye could accommodate me at a rizzonable rate," said Donal.
"I dinna ken," replied Glumm, hesitating, with his back to him, between unwillingness to lose a penny, and resentment at the supposed badinage, which was indeed nothing but humour; "what wad ye ca' rizzonable?"
"I wadna grudge a saxpence for my bed; a shillin' I wad," answered Donal.
"Weel, ninepence than—for ye seemna owercome wi' siller."
"Na," answered Donal, "I'm no that. Whatever my burden, yon's no hit. The loss o' what I hae wad hardly mak me lichter for my race."
"Ye're a queer customer!" said the man.
"I'm no sae queer but I hae a kist comin' by the carrier," rejoined Donal, "direckit to the Morven Airms. It'll be here in time doobtless."
"We'll see whan it comes," remarked the landlord, implying the chest was easier invented than believed in.
"The warst o' 't is," continued Donal, "I canna weel shaw mysel' wantin' shune. I hae a pair i' my kist, an' anither upo' my back,—but nane for my feet."
"There's sutors enew," said the innkeeper.
"Weel we'll see as we gang. I want a word wi' the minister. Wad ye direc' me to the manse?"
"He's frae hame. But it's o' sma' consequence; he disna care aboot tramps, honest man! He winna waur muckle upo' the likes o' you."
The landlord was recovering himself—therefore his insolence.
Donal gave a laugh. Those who are content with what they are, have the less concern about what they seem. The ambitious like to be taken for more than they are, and may well be annoyed when they are taken for less.
"I'm thinkin' ye wadna waur muckle on a tramp aither!" he said.
"I wad not," answered Glumm. "It's the pairt o' the honest to discoontenance lawlessness."
"Ye wadna hang the puir craturs, wad ye?" asked Donal.
"I wad hang a wheen mair o' them."
"For no haein' a hoose ower their heads? That's some hard! What gien ye was ae day to be in want o' ane yersel'!"
"We'll bide till the day comes.—But what are ye stan'in' there for? Are ye comin' in, or are ye no?"
"It's a some cauld welcome!" said Donal. "I s' jist tak a luik aboot afore I mak up my min'. A tramp, ye ken, needsna stan' upo' ceremony."
He turned away and walked further along the street.
CHAPTER V.
THE COBBLER
At the end of the street he came to a low-arched gateway in the middle of a poor-looking house. Within it sat a little bowed man, cobbling diligently at a boot. The sun had left behind him in the west a heap of golden refuse, and cuttings of rose and purple, which shone right in at the archway, and let him see to work. Here was the very man for Donal! A respectable shoemaker would have disdained to patch up the shoes he carried—especially as the owner was in so much need of them.
"It's a bonny nicht," he said.
"Ye may weel mak the remark, sir!" replied the cobbler without looking up, for a critical stitch occupied him. "It's a balmy nicht."
"That's raither a bonny word to put til't!" returned Donal. "There's a kin' o' an air aboot the place I wad hardly hae thoucht balmy! But troth it's no the fau't o' the nicht!"
"Ye're richt there also," returned the cobbler—his use of the conjunction impressing Donal. "Still, the weather has to du wi' the smell—wi' the mair or less o' 't, that is. It comes frae a tanneree nearby. It's no an ill smell to them 'at's used til't; and ye wad hardly believe me, sir, but I smell the clover throuw 't. Maybe I'm preejudized, seein' but for the tan-pits I couldna weel drive my trade; but sittin' here frae mornin' to nicht, I get a kin' o' a habit o' luikin' oot for my blessin's. To recognize an auld blessin' 's 'maist better nor to get a new ane. A pair o' shune weel cobblet 's whiles full better nor a new pair."
"They are that," said Donal; "but I dinna jist see hoo yer seemile applies."
"Isna gettin' on a pair o' auld weel-kent an' weel men'it shune, 'at winna nip yer feet nor yet shochle, like waukin' up til a blessin' ye hae been haein' for years, only ye didna ken 't for ane?"
As he spoke, the cobbler lifted a little wizened face and a pair of twinkling eyes to those of the student, revealing a soul as original as his own. He was one of the inwardly inseparable, outwardly far divided company of Christian philosophers, among whom individuality as well as patience is free to work its perfect work. In that glance Donal saw a ripe soul looking out of its tent door, ready to rush into the sunshine of the new life.
He stood for a moment lost in eternal regard of the man. He seemed to have known him for ages. The cobbler looked up again.
"Ye'll be wantin' a han' frae me i' my ain line, I'm thinkin'!" he said, with a kindly nod towards Donal's shoeless feet.
"Sma' doobt!" returned Donal. "I had scarce startit, but was ower far to gang back, whan the sole o' ae shue cam aff, an' I had to tramp it wi' baith my ain."
"An' ye thankit the Lord for the auld blessin' o' bein' born an' broucht up wi' soles o' yer ain!"
"To tell the trowth," answered Donal, "I hae sae mony things to be thankfu' for, it's but sma' won'er I forget mony ane o' them. But noo, an' I thank ye for the exhortation, the Lord's name be praist 'at he gae me feet fit for gangin' upo'!"
He took his shoes from his back, and untying the string that bound them, presented the ailing one to the cobbler.
"That's what we may ca' deith!" remarked the cobbler, slowly turning the invalided shoe.
"Ay, deith it is," answered Donal; "it's a sair divorce o' sole an' body."
"It's a some auld-farrand joke," said the cobbler, "but the fun intil a thing doesna weir oot ony mair nor the poetry or the trowth intil't."
"Who will say there was no providence in the loss of my shoe-sole!" remarked Donal to himself. "Here I am with
