AT A HIGHLAND CATTLE AUCTION.
A Yard. In the open space between the rows of pens the Auctioneer is trying to dispose of some horses which are trotted out one by one in the usual fashion.
The Auctioneer (spectacled, red-bearded, canny, slightly Arcadian touch imparted by straw hat, and a sprig of heather in his button-hole). What'll I say for this, noo? (A horse of a meditative mien is just brought in.) Here's a beast, and a very good beast, from Lochaber! (The bystanders remain unmoved.) He was bred by Meester MacFarlane, o' Drumtappit, and ye'll all ha' haird on him as the biggest breeder in these pairts. (Heads are shaken, so much as to intimate that this particular animal does not do Mr. MacFarlane justice.) Trot him up an' doon a bit, boy, and show his action—stan' away back there! (With affected concern.) Don't curb him so tight—be careful now, or ye'll do meeschief to yourself an' others! (As the horse trots past them, several critics slap it disrespectfully on the hind-quarters—a liberty which it bears with meekness.) There's a pace for ye—he's a guid woorker, a gran' beast—hoo much shall we say for him? (Nobody seems able to express his appreciation of the grand beast in figures.) Just to stairt ye then—twenty poon! (Even the animal himself appears slightly staggered by this sum; bystanders are quietly derisive; Auctioneer climbs rapidly down without interruption till he reaches six pounds, when he receives his first bid.) Sex poon' is bed for 'm—is there ony advance on sex poon? (Someone in the background:—"Fefteen shellin'!") Sex-fefteen—noo, Meester McRobbie, wull ye no luik this way? (Mr. McR. responds by a decided negative.) Ye won't? Ah, I never got ony guid from ye—'cept when I didn't meet ye. (This piece of Scotch "wut" raises a laugh at Mr.McR.'s expense, but does not affect the bidding, which still languishes.) Then, he's going at sex-fefteen—for the last time. Whaur's my bedder at sex-fefteen? (Repentance or modesty prevents the bidder from coming forward, and the Auctioneer continues, more in grief than anger.) Eh, this is too bad noo—I'll thank no man for making me a bed, 'cept those that are meant in airnest. No one bed onything for a beast like this! Then I hae to tell ye ye've not bed near up to the resairve price on it. (Suddenly becomes weary of the animal.) Tak' it awa'. (The next horse is led in.) Now, here's a beast that's well-known, I'm thenkin'. (The general expression signifies that its reputation is not altogether to its credit.) There's a well-bred mare—open up, and let her show hersel'. (The mare is shown, but fails to excite competition.) Ah, ye'll ony buy screws to-day, an' not the nice things at a'—tak' her away. (The mare is taken out ignominiously; Auctioneer, followed by crowd, leads the way to where a pony and trap are standing harnessed.) Noo, I'm gaun to pit up the pony an' van—just show them hoo she goes in hairness, boy. (To intrusive collie.) Out of the way, dug, in case ye get your feet smashed. (Trap starts off, and is driven out of sight.) Whaur's the laddie gaun ta? Thenks he'll show himsel' at Nairn, maybe! Ah, here she comes. (Trap returns at a modest pace.) Stan' back, noo, all of ye; give her room. I'll sell the mare first, and a beauty she is—what shell we say? Ten poons—and she's a nice one! Well, stairt her at five, she may get up. (Bidding gets up to ten pounds, where it stops.) Then she goes at ten, and I'm very glad she's gaun to a gude auld friend o' mine—Meester McKenzie, o' Glenbannock. Wull ye say five mair, and take the hairness, Meester McKenzie? It's richt hairness! (Mr. McK. declines to be tempted.) Well, I'm sorry ye wull na, I'd ha liked (sentimentally, as if it had been the dream of his life) for the mare an' the hairness to go togither and no to pairt them—but as 'tis, it canna be helped. We'll pass on to the pegs, if you please. (Passes to a row of pens containing pigs, and mounts some planks placed along the top.) Now, these are some proper pegs. (A rush is made for the rails enclosing the pigs, which instantly become self-conscious and redouble their grunts.) Noo, laddies, laddies, it's no fair o' ye taking up a' the room i' that way. I'm quite sure there's a lot o' ye in front that's no buying pegs—ye hanna the luik o' pairsons that buy pegs. Stan' by for shame, and don't keep them that comes to buy, where they canna see sae much as a tail. Hoo much apiece for these palefaced pegs? Ye've an awfu' guid view o' them there, Mr. Ferguson,—-luik this way once again for forrty and threepence. (Persuasively.) It'll soun' better wi' the threepence. Gaun' for forty an' three. (The owner of the pigs calls out "No!") I thocht I made a law here that people having pegs should gie me the resairve at the time—see what ye do now, Peter MacPhairson, make a fule of the buyers and a fule o' mysel'!—but (with tolerant contempt) Peter is not a strong man, we must no be haird on Peter. (Roar from crowd; disappearance of Mr. MacPh.) I'll cancel no more sales that way, however, as I eentimate to ye once for a'.
'Arry (on tour from Town—to his admiring friend). I say, Charley, what d'yer bet I don't talk to some of these chaps in their own lingo?
Charley. What a fellow you are! Mind what you are about, that's all.
'Arry (going up to an elderly person in the only Scotch cap visible). Hech, Sair, but yon's a braw bonnie wee bit piggie fur a body to tak' a richt gude wullie waucht wi' gin ye meet him comin' thro' the rye!
The Person in the Scotch Cap (who happens to be a retired Colonel in a Highland Regiment, who is somewhat careless in his attire). I think you will find that sort of thing better appreciated after you've got home.
['Arry returns to Charley, feeling much smaller than he allows his friend to perceive.