ison. I didna
think he could hae peen sae weel up. He has made a day on us; but his
Argyleshires will have wearied shanks. How far was he pehind?"

"I think about six or seven miles," answered the Squire, "for I passed
them at the Christenbury Crag, and I overtook you at the Hollan Bush. If
his beasts be leg-weary, he will be maybe selling bargains."

"Na, na, Hughie Morrison is no the man for pargains--ye maun come to
some Highland body like Robin Oig hersel' for the like of these. Put I
maun pe wishing you goot night, and twenty of them, let alane ane, and I
maun down to the Clachan to see if the lad Harry Waakfelt is out of his
humdudgeons yet."

The party at the alehouse were still in full talk, and the treachery
of Robin Oig still the theme of conversation, when the supposed culprit
entered the apartment. His arrival, as usually happens in such a case,
put an instant stop to the discussion of which he had furnished the
subject, and he was received by the company assembled with that chilling
silence which, more than a thousand exclamations, tells an intruder
that he is unwelcome. Surprised and offended, but not appalled by the
reception which he experienced, Robin entered with an undaunted and even
a haughty air, attempted no greeting, as he saw he was received with
none, and placed himself by the side of the fire, a little apart from
a table at which Harry Wakefield, the bailiff, and two or three other
persons, were seated. The ample Cumbrian kitchen would have afforded
plenty of room, even for a larger separation.

Robin thus seated, proceeded to light his pipe, and call for a pint of
twopenny.

"We have no twopence ale," answered Ralph Heskett the landlord; "but as
thou find'st thy own tobacco, it's like thou mayst find thy own liquor
too--it's the wont of thy country, I wot."

"Shame, goodman," said the landlady, a blithe, bustling housewife,
hastening herself to supply the guest with liquor. "Thou knowest well
enow what the strange man wants, and it's thy trade to be civil, man.
Thou shouldst know, that if the Scot likes a small pot, he pays a sure
penny."

Without taking any notice of this nuptial dialogue, the Highlander took
the flagon in his hand, and addressing the company generally, drank the
interesting toast of "Good markets" to the party assembled.

"The better that the wind blew fewer dealers from the north," said
one of the farmers, "and fewer Highland runts to eat up the English
meadows."