"You get me a room, darling, and I'll nurse him and lay him on the bed while we eat our dinner."
They left the horse with an ostler, and went into the low hall of the tavern. Fawnie, carrying Buckskin, mounted the stair, a servant with a dangling key following her, and Derek turned into the bar. It was well filled—a large comfortable bar, clean, smelling of ale and freshly burning hemlock. A porter was on his knees before the stove. As Vale drank his ale he watched the languid movements of the fellow. The porter, seeming to feel his gaze, looked up, and Derek saw it was Bob Gunn.
Bob's beady black eyes twinkled, whether with a friendly or malicious light, Derek could not tell.
"Well, how do you like your new job?"
"Fine. The pay's fair, the food's guid, and the commaircial men are free eneuch wi' their tips. It's better than fairm life anyway."
"But the hours are even longer."
"Ay, but there's something doing. Something to see. I'd liefer hear a stoker off one of the lake vessels curse, than listen tae Chaird's whingin' and whinin'. I'd liefer clean up the floor of the bar than dig in the freezing airth all day makin' drains, or hoe out weeds that are up again before your back's turned. Then you hear interestin' talk here, politeeks, religion, science, and the status of women in the wairld. There's nae sich thing as a dull hour." He was sitting on his heels, a stick of hemlock in his hand. He now looked up in Derek's face with his twinkling eyes. "By the way, we had a relation of yours in here lately."
"A relation of mine?" repeated Derek, mystified.
"Ay, Jammery. He was wanting a drink but, of course, we had tae order him out as he is on the Indian List. He objected, and contended that he was white. He looks pretty white, and speaks well, but he's connected with
