might have met Parson Leggy, striding along with a couple of
varmint terriers at his heels, and young Cyril Gilbraith, whom he
was teaching to tie flies and fear God, beside him; or Jim Mason,
postman by profession, poacher by predilection, honest man and
sportsman by nature, hurrying along with the mail-bags on his
shoulder, a rabbit in his pocket, and the-faithful Betsy a yard
behind. Besides these you might have hit upon a quiet shepherd
and a wise-faced dog; Squire Sylvester, going his rounds upon a
sturdy cob; or, had you been lucky, sweet Lady Eleanour bent upon
some errand of mercy to one of the many tenants.

It was while the Squire's lady was driving through the village on a
visit* to Tammas's slobbering grandson--it was shortly after Billy
Thornton's advent into the world--that little M'Adam, standing in
the door of the Sylvester Arms, with a twig in his mouth and a
sneer fading from his lips, made his ever-memorable remark:

"Sail!" he said, speaking in low, earnest voice; " 'tis a muckle
wumman."

was this visit which figured in the Grammochtown Argus (local
and radical) under the heading of "Alleged Wholesale Corruption
by Tory Agents." And that is why, on the following market day,
Herbert Trotter, journalist, erstwhile gentleman, and Secretary of
the Dale Trials, found himself trying to swim in the public
horsetrough.

"What? What be sayin', mon?" cried old Jonas, startled out of his
usual apathy.