had reached L.30 a load; and
the numerous groups of hearty, stalwart yeomen present were in high
glee, crowing and exulting alike over their full pockets and the
news--of which the papers were just then full--of the burning of
Moscow, and the flight and ruin of Bonaparte's army. James Dutton was
in the room, but not, I observed, in his usual flow of animal spirits.
The crape round his hat might, I thought, account for that; and as he
did not see me, I accosted him with an inquiry after his health, and
the reason of his being in mourning. He received me very cordially,
and in an instant cast off the abstracted manner I had noticed. His
father, he informed me, was gone--had died about seven months
previously, and he was alone now at Ash Farm--why didn't I run down
there to see him sometimes, &c.? Our conversation was interrupted by a
summons to dinner, very cheerfully complied with; and we both--at
least I can answer for myself--did ample justice to a more than
usually capital dinner, even in those capital old market-dinner times.
We were very jolly afterwards, and amazingly triumphant over the
frost-bitten, snow-buried soldier-banditti that had so long lorded it
over continental Europe. Dutton did not partake of the general
hilarity. There was a sneer upon his lip during the whole time, which,
however, found no expression in words.

'How quiet you are, James Dutton!' cried a loud voice from out the
dense smoke-cloud that by this time completely enveloped us. On
looking towards the spot from whence the ringing tones came, a jolly,
round face--like the sun as seen through a London fog--gleamed redly
dull from out the thick and choking atmosphere.

'Everybody,' rejoined Dutton, 'hasn't had the luck to sell two hundred
quarters of wheat at to-day's price, as you have, Tom Southall.'

'That's true, my boy,' returned Master Southall, sending, in the
plenitude of his satisfaction, a jet of smoke towards us with
astonishing force. 'And, I say, Jem, I'll tell ee what I'll do; I'll
clap on ten guineas more upon what I offered for the brown mare.'

'Done! She's yours, Tom, then, for ninety guineas!'

'Gie's your hand upon it!' cried Tom Southall, jumping up from his
chair, and stretching a fist as big as a leg of mutton--well, say
lamb--over the table. 'And here--here,' he added, with an exultant
chuckle, as he extricated a swollen canvas-bag from his
pocket--'here's the dibs at once.'

This transaction excited a great deal