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been the unwitting cause of his falling into disgiace with his master,) as well as by the innkeeper, and two or three chance guests, who soothed the drorer in his resentment against his quondam associate,——some from the ancient grudge against the Scots, which, when it exists anywhere is to be found lurking in the border counties, and some from the general love of mischief, which characterises mankind in all ranks of life, to the honour of Adam’s children be it spoken. Good John Barleycorn also, who always heightens and exaggerates the prevailing passions, be they angry or kindly, was not wanting in his offices on this occasion; and confusion to false friends and hard masters, was pledged in more than one tankard.
In the meanwhile Mr Ireby found some amusement in detaining the northern drover at his ancient hall. He caused a cold round of beef to be placed before the Scot in the butler’s pantry, together with a foaming tankard of home-brewed, and took pleasure in seeing the hearty appetite with which these unwonted edibles were discussed by Robin Oig M'Combich. The Squire himself lighting his pipe, compounded between his patrician dignity and his love of agricultural gossip, by walking up and down while he conversed with his guest. “I passed another drove,” said the Squire, “with one of your countrymen behind them——they were something less beasts than your drove, doddies most of them——a big man was with them——none of your kilts though, but a decent pair of breeches——D’ye know who he may be?” “ Hout ay——that might, could, and would pe Hughie Morrison——I didna think he could hae peen sae weel up. He has made a day on us; put 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 Cragg, 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 he
