“Na, na, Hughie Morrison is no the man for pargains--ye maun come to some Highland body like Robin Oig hersel’ for the like of these. Put I maun pe wishing you goot night, and twenty of them, let alane ane, and I maun down to the Clachan to see if the lad Harry Waakfelt is out of his humdudgeons yet.” The party at the alehouse were still in full talk, and the treachery of Robin Oig still the theme of conversation, when the supposed culprit entered the apartment. His arrival, as usually happens in such a case, put an instant stop to the discussion of which he had furnished the subject, and he was received by the company assembled with that chilling silence which, more than a thousand exclamations, tells an intruder that he is unwelcome. Surprised and offended, but not appalled by the reception which he experienced, Robin entered with an undaunted and even a haughty air, attempted no greeting, as he saw he was received with none, and placed himself by the side of the fire, a little apart from a table at which Harry Wakefield, the bailiff, and two or three other persons, were seated. The ample Cumbrian kitchen would have afforded plenty of room, even for a larger separation. Robin thus seated, proceeded to light his pipe, and call for a pint of twopenny. “We have no twopence ale,” answered Ralph Heskett the landlord; “but as thou find’st thy own tobacco, it’s like thou mayst find thy own liquor too--it’s the wont of thy country, I wot.” “Shame, goodman,” said the landlady, a blithe, bustling housewife, hastening herself to supply the guest with liquor. “Thou knowest well enow what the strange man wants, and it’s thy trade to be civil, man. Thou shouldst know, that if the Scot likes a small pot, he pays a sure penny.” Without taking any notice of this nuptial dialogue, the Highlander took the flagon in his hand, and addressing the company generally, drank the interesting toast of “Good markets” to the party assembled. “The better that the wind blew fewer dealers from the north,” said one of the farmers, “and fewer Highland runts to eat up the English meadows.” “Saul of my pody, put you are wrang there, my friend,” answered Robin, with composure; “it is your fat Englishmen that eat up our Scots cattle, puir things.” “I wish there was a summat to eat up their drovers,” said another; “a plain Englishman canna make bread within a kenning of them.” “Or an honest servant keep his master’s favour but they will come sliding in between him and the sunshine,” said the bailiff. “If these pe jokes,” said Robin Oig, with the same composure, “there is ower mony jokes upon one man.” “It is no joke, but downright earnest,” said the bailiff. “Harkye, Mr. Robin Ogg, or whatever is your name, it’s right we should tell you that we are all of one opinion, and that is, that you, Mr. Robin Ogg, have behaved to our friend Mr. Harry Wakefield here, like a raff and a blackguard.”