‘Are you needing all that to yoursel’?’ he enquired, looking jocosely at the bystanders as he paused before Granny Stirk. ‘Na, na; up ye go, my lad. The biggest leear in the armchair,’ said the old woman as she rose. ‘It’s ill work meddling wi’ the Queen o’ the Cadgers,’ remarked a man who stood near. Gilbert determined to stay in his place by the Stirks, for the commotion and trampling going on proclaimed that the live stock were on the eve of being brought to the hammer. The cart-horses were the first to be disposed of, so, having found someone who offered to put the roan into a spare stall, he abandoned himself to the interest with which the scene inspired him. Jimmy Stirk’s face, when the last team had been led away, told him the all-important moment had come. The boy moistened his lips with his tongue and looked at him. His hand was shut tightly upon the money it held. It was difficult to imagine what use the owner of the farm might have found for the animal being walked about before the possible buyers, for he was just fifteen hands and seemed far too light to carry a heavy man, or to be put between the shafts of one of those clumsy gigs which rolled unevenly into Kaims on market-days. In spite of the evident strain of good blood, he was no beauty, being somewhat ewe-necked and too long in the back. But his shoulder sloped properly to the withers and his length of stride behind, as he was walked round, gave promise of speed; his full eye took a nervous survey of the mass of humanity surrounding him. The man who led him turned him abruptly round and held him facing the wood-pile. Gilbert could hear Jimmy Stirk breathing hard at his shoulder. The auctioneer looked round upon the crowd with the noisome familiarity of his class, a shepherd’s crook which he held ready to strike on the planks at his feet substituting the traditional hammer. ‘You’ll no’ hae seen the like o’ lot fifty-seven hereabout,’ he began. ‘Yon’s a gentleman’s naig--no ane o’ they coorse deevils that trayvels the road at the term wi’ an auld wife that’s shifting hoose cocked up i’ the cart--he wouldna suit you, Granny.’ He looked down at the old woman, the grudge he bore her lurking in his eye. ‘Hoots!’ she exclaimed; ‘tak him yoursel’, gin ye see ony chance o’ bidin’ on his back!’ The auctioneer was an indifferent horseman. ‘A gentleman’s naig, I’m telling ye! Fit for the laird o’ Fullarton, or maybe her ladyship hersel’,’ he roared, eager to cover his unsuccessful sally and glancing towards Robert and Lady Eliza, who sat on horseback watching the proceedings. ‘Aicht pounds! Aicht pounds! Ye’ll na get sic a chance this side o’ the New Year!’ There was a dead silence, but a man with a bush of black whisker, unusual to his epoch, cast a furtive glance at the horse. ‘Speak up, Davie MacLunder! speak up!’ Another dead silence followed. ‘Fiech!’ said David MacLunder suddenly, without moving a muscle of his face.