To a mercenary mind; to a man whose whole soul is ground down to considerations of mere profit (considerations which many profound politico-philosophers deplore as entering too largely into the agricultural mind) the result of Mr. Bovington’s comparison of the cost with the present market prices, would have been extremely unsatisfactory. What he had produced at about 3_s._ 9_d._ per stone, he found by the ‘Marklane Express’ was ‘dull at 3_s._ 6_d._, sinking the offal.’ Neither had the season been favourable for sheep—at least, not for _his_ sheep—and by them, too, he would be a loser. But what of that? Mr. Bovington’s object was less profit than fame. As a beginner, he wanted to establish a first-class character in the market; and, that obtained, it would be time enough to turn his attention to the economics of feeding and breeding. With what pride would he hear the praises of those astute critics, the London butchers, as they walked round and round, pinching and punching each particular ox, enumerating his various good points, and contrasting it with the meaner, leaner stock of the mere practical graziers! With what confidence he could command the top price, and with what certainty he could maintain it for his ‘lots’ in future! Mr. Bovington was as merciful as he was above immediate gain. He could not trust the stock he had nurtured and fed, to the uncontrolled dominion of drovers. Though hurried to their doom, he would take care that they should be killed ‘comfortably.’ He considered this as a sacred duty, else he—who was a pattern to the parish—would not have thus employed himself on a Sunday. As he took his ticket at the station, the chimes for evening service had just struck out. His conscience smote him. As his eye roved over the peaceful glades of Long Hornets, on which the evening sun was lowering his beams, he contrasted the holy Sabbath calm with the scene of excitement into which he was voluntarily plunging himself. As a kind of salve to his troubled mind, he determined to pay extra care and attention to the comfort of his cattle. His consignment was to remain, till Smithfield market opened at eleven o’clock on the Sunday night, at the Islington lairs. Thither Mr. Bovington repaired—on landing at the Euston Station—in a very fast cab. On his way, he calculated what the cost would be of all the fodder, all the water, and all the attendance, which his sheep and oxen would have received during their temporary sojourn. The first question he put, therefore, to the drover on arriving at the lairs, was: “What’s to pay?” “Wot for?” “Why,” replied the amateur grazier, “for the feed of my sheep since last night!” “Feed!” repeated the man with staring wonder. “Who ever heerd of feedin’ markit sheep? Why, they’ll be killed on Monday or Tuesday, won’t they?” “If sold.” “Well they’ll never want no more wittles, will they?” “But they have had nothing since Saturday!”