"Now, just to give you a sample. Here's a nice neat shawl that I never had no more nor two of. Well, I actually sold the fellow of that shawl for seven-and-sixpence." The look of amazement at his own shortcomings which sat on the child-like face of the peddler was answered by the expression of mock surprise in the face of Paul Ritson, who came up at the moment, took the shawl from Gubblum's outstretched arms, and said in a hushed whisper: "No, did you now?" Geordie Moore thereupon dived into his pocket, and brought out three half-crowns. "Here's for you, Gubblum; let's have it." "'Od bless me!" cried the elderly cynic, "but that Gubblum will never mak' his plack a bawbee." And Grey Graham, having disposed of the affairs of the nation and witnessed Geordie snap at the peddler's bait, cried out in a bitter laugh: "'There's little wit within his powe That lights a candle at the lowe.'" Just then a tumult arose in the vicinity of the bar. The two cronies were at open war. "Deuce take it! I had fifteen white shillin' in my reet-hand breek pocket, and where are they now?" "'Od dang thee! what should I know about your brass? You're kicking up a stour to waken a corp!" "I had fifteen white shillin' in my reet-hand breek pocket, I tell thee!" "What's that to me, thou poor shaffles? You're as drunk as muck. Do you think I've taken your brass? You've got a wrong pig by the lug if you reckon to come ower me!" "They were in my reet-hand breek pocket, I'll swear on it!" "What a fratchin'--try your left-hand breek pocket." The russet-faced plowman thrust his hand where directed and instantly a comical smile of mingled joy and shame overspread his countenance. There was a gurgling laugh, through which the voice of the peddler could be heard saying: "We'll mak' thee king ower the cockers, my canny lad." The canny lad was slinking away amid a derisive titter, when a great silence fell on the booth. Those in front fell back, and those behind craned their necks to see over the heads of the people before them. At the mouth of the booth stood the old Laird Fisher, his face ghastly pale, his eyes big and restless, the rain dripping from his long hair and beard. "They've telt me," he began in a strange voice, "they've telt me that my Mercy has gone off in the London train. I reckon they're mistook as to the lass, but I've come to see for mysel'. Is she here?" None answered. Only the heavy rain-drops that pattered on the canvas overhead broke the silence. Paul Ritson pushed his way through the crowd. "Mercy?--London? Wait, Matthew; I'll see if she's here." The Laird Fisher looked from face to face of the people about him. "Any on you know owt about her?" he asked in a low voice. "Why don't you speak, some on you? You shake your heads--what does that mean?" The old man was struggling to control the emotion that was surging in his throat. "No, Matthew, she's not here," said Paul Ritson.