knowledge with cunning in the arena of the
"private bargain."

All these and an infinity of other characteristics were united in the
burly person of Kennedy McClure of Supsorrow. A man of sixty, stout and
hardy, he still added field to field. He laid out every shilling of his
money wisely. He spent little, gave less, and swallowed up every
neighbouring piece of property which came into the market. If a man were
in difficulties, Kennedy McClure waited for the time when he would be
ready to accept an offer for such and such a meadow or stretch of
corn-land which he had long coveted. He would not cheat. He would pay
the proper price in ringing guineas, but he must have the first chance.
And then, overjoyed by the mere sight of the added acres, he would pace
the newly acquired territory with a step to which a full figure lent
importance, a certain pride of bearing which went well with the length
of his purse, and the authority which could be felt in his least word.

Kennedy kept up a certain parade of humility, but his looks and walk
belied him. A Royal Commission once approached him with a summons to
give evidence as to a plague of voles which was desolating the fertile
fields of the south-west, and his opinion was valuable because he had
recently acquired by purchase the great, barren hill called Ben Marrick.

"What is your business?" said the chairman, a profound English
agriculturist, with as profound an ignorance of the fine shades of
Galloway speech.

"_I work on the land_," said Kennedy McClure with smileless deference.

"What, a farm labourer?" said the great man; "this is first-hand
evidence indeed. Well, I suppose that you have studied the devastation
caused by these animals on the--the--what is the name--ah, yes, Ben
Marrick?"

"My lord," said the many-acred "farm labourer," "there is never a vole
on the Ben o' Marrick. The vole is far ower good a judge of land to
waste his time on the Marrick."

It needed the intervention of the local clerk of the commission to
convince the chairman that he was talking to a man far richer than
himself, besides being experienced and sage to the confines of rural
wisdom.

It was to this kinsman that Eben McClure was thinking of making an
appeal. He knew that along with the property, Kennedy had taken over the
carriage and capitally matched horses of the late laird of Glen Marrick.
Perhaps he would lend them to a kinsman in order to oblige a Royal Duke.
He need not be to