Peter Amos, a greybeard, shook his head solemnly as he buried his nose in a pannikin of tea, and said, "Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall—that's gospel wisdom; an' don't 'it a man wen's down—that's worldly wisdom, an' looks like as it 'ad jumped out o' the Bible stark naked."
"Mair like the man i' the parable, Peter," said Sandy McKerrow, "wha took the highest room wi' a swagger, an' had to climb down to the lowest room wi' his tail 'tween his legs."
"Aye, man, that's verra true, verra true," said another known as "Scottie."
Here a stalwart giant, with a shock of red hair, stood up, with doubled fists, and spat on the floor; then said, "If any of you mongrel mules says another word against Bill, I'll rattle your teeth down your throat like dice in a box."
Meanwhile the subject of this conversation had closed his eyes, and was fast asleep. All his senses were locked, bolted, and barred. Sheep, shears, tallies, and pride of place were forgotten. He was in the land of dreams, that ancient land of gold, precious stones, ivory castles, battle, murder, and sudden death.
Silence reigned in the shed. The men quietly ladled the tea out of the buckets into their pannikins, or struck a match on the seat of their trousers, lit their pipes, and smoked.
Bill slept on, but suddenly his brow was knitted and his hands were clenched. Then he opened his eyes, and looked round with a scared face.
"Boys," he said, "I've had a dream! I'll never shear another sheep!"
He slowly rose and stood up, then he took his oilstone, and with it smashed his shears into fragments.