ntlemen," he felt convinced that things would
brighten. The Radicals' one ambition was to set class against class,
landlord against tenant. Well, during the last five hundred years, the
Sylvesters had rarely been--he was sorry to have to confess it--good men
(laughter and dissent); but he never yet heard of the Sylvester--though
he shouldn't say it--who was a bad landlord (loud applause).

This was a free country, and any tenant of his who was not content (a
voice, "'Oo says we bain't?")--"thank you, thank you!"--well, there was
room for him outside. (Cheers.) He thanked God from the bottom of his
heart that, during the forty years he had been responsible for the
March Mere Estate, there had never been any friction between him and his
people (cheers), and he didn't think there ever would be. (Loud cheers.)

"Thank you, thank you!" And his motto was, "Shun a Radical as you do the
devil!"--and he was very glad to see them all there--very glad; and he
wished to give them a toast, "The Queen! God bless her!" and--wait a
minute!--with her Majesty's name to couple--he was sure that gracious
lady would wish it--that of "Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!" Then he sat down
abruptly amid thundering applause.

The toasts duly honoured, James Moore, by prescriptive right as Master
of Kenmuir, rose to answer.

He began by saying that he spoke "as representing all the tenants,"--but
he was interrupted.

"Na," came a shrill voice from half-way down the table. "Yell except me,
James Moore. I'd as lief be represented by Judas!"

There were cries of "Hold ye gab, little mon!" and the squire's voice,
"That'll do, Mr. M'Adam!"

The little man restrained his tongue, but his eyes gleamed like a
ferret's; and the Master continued his speech.

He spoke briefly and to the point, in short phrases. And all the while
M'Adam kept up a low-voiced, running commentary. At length he could
control himself no longer. Half rising from his chair, he leant forward
with hot face and burning eyes, and cried: "Sit doon, James Moore! Hoo
daur ye stan' there like an honest man, ye whitewashed sepulchre? Sit
doon, I say, or"--threateningly--"wad ye hae me come to ye?"

At that the Dalesmen laughed uproariously, and even the Master's grim
face relaxed. But the squire's voice rang out sharp and stern.

"Keep silence and sit down, Mr. M'Adam! D'you hear me, sir? If I have to
speak to you again it will be to order you to leave the room."

The little man obeyed, sullen