LOCKERBY TO MOODLAW. 361 



father, marshalled the tups outside the ring, the 

 lusty manhood of Tom Welsh was master of the cere- 

 monies within. There, too, sat Linhope, with his 

 catalogue clasped to his breast, as he eyed the first 

 lot, and the still more portly form of " Baitlaws" in 

 his brown gaiters, with his two hands resthig on his 

 stick — as moderators of that Cheviot assembly. 



Then ^^ Linhope" broke silence. *' Old Duke, what 

 age is he T^ " Five shear," says Mr. Oliver ; ^' he 

 won at Perth, Battersea, Langholm, and Thornhill." 

 However, his age was against him, and 22 gs. was the 

 figure. '' Thorley by The Earl by The Duke by 

 Old Pal ley — who^ll give twenty guineas ?" " Twelve," 

 says the cautious Baitlaws. " Fifteen — twenty," 

 says Tom Welsh; and away they went, Mofi'at of 

 Craig going to the cry, and fall of drive. At fifty 

 there was a pause, and Tom Welsh " was in." 

 Then " Linhope," Mofi'at, and Archibald ran to 

 head once more. " Linhope" was in at sixty, and 

 again at sixty-two ; but he would have no more of it,. 

 and Archibald received the Oliverian benediction, 

 "You^llget into a good stock." Ben Lomond then 

 gave us a turn. He trotted round the ring, made 

 for a bolt-hole, and in an instant our form was tilted 

 up, and ourselves and a companion bit the sod. Loud 

 and long was the laugh against us, and there was 

 nothing for it but to move mentally that his "name 

 be taken down," and into our note-book it went. 

 We did not wait long for revenge. With a rigid 

 impartiality beyond all praise. The Idiot fiew at 



