Ye can ride like a jockey and drive like a
Jehu, and there's no your equal in these parts with a gun or a
fishing-rod. Forbye, I would rather walk ae mile on the hill wi' ye
than twae, for ye gang up a brae-face like a mawkin! God! There's no a
single man's trade that ye're no brawly fitted for. And then ye've a
heap o' book-lear that folk learned ye away about England, though I
cannot speak muckle on that, no being a jidge."
Lewis grinned at the portraiture. "You do me proud. But let's talk
about serious things. You were on sheep when I came in. Get back to
them and give me your mind on Cheviots. The lamb sales promise well."
For twenty minutes the room hummed with technicalities. One man might
support the conversation on alien matters, but on sheep the humblest
found a voice: Lewis watched the ring of faces with a sharp delight.
The election had made him sick of his fellows--fellows who chattered and
wrangled and wallowed in the sentimental. But now every line of these
brown faces, the keen blue eyes, the tawny, tangled beards, and the
inimitable soft-sounding southern speech, seemed an earnest of a real
and strenuous life. He began to find a new savour in existence. The
sense of his flat incompetence left him, and he found himself speaking
heartily and laughing with zest.
"It's as I say," said the herd of the Redswirebead.
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