“Ye may dae what ye like at Pit foodies, but ye 'll play nae tricks here, Jock,” and Burnbrae's eye had a dangerous gleam; “gin ye dinna tell the fouk that the mare hes a titch o' 'grease' on her aff hind-leg, a 'll dae it masel.”
Jock was much dashed, for he had intended some other legitimate improvements, and he carried his wrongs to Drumsheugh.
“There's sic a thing as bein' ower gude, an' a' dinna see ony use in startin' this roup; he micht as weel fling awa' his gear tae the first bidder. Wull ye believe it,” said Jock, in bitterness of soul, “that he hesna providit a drop o' speerits, an' is gaein' tae offer the fouk tea an' lime-juice—lime-juice,” and Jock dwelt on the word with scathing scorn.
Did ye ever hear o' a roup comin' aff on sic like drink? It's fifteen year sin a' took tae the unctioneerin' trade, an' a' tell ye nae man 'ill gie a bid worth mentionin' till he 's hed his tastin', an' there's nae spunk afore the third gless.
“Noo there wes Pitfoodles roup,” exclaimed Jock, harking back to high-water mark; “if a' didna send roond the glesses sax times, an' afore a' wes ower Lochlands bocht a geizened (leaky) water-cairt withoot wheels for aucht pund twal shillings, an' it's lying at Pitfoodles till this day. Ye'ill no see a roup like that twice in a generation. Lime-juice—it's a clean temptin' o' Providence.”
“Ye needna get in a feery-farry (commotion), Jock,” said Drumsheugh, eyeing the little man severely; “the 'ill be nae call for speerits the day. A'm no a jidge o' lime-juice masel, but it 'ill dae as weel as onything else, or water itsel for that maitter.
“Pitfoodles! Man, it 'ill no be mentioned wi' the prices ye 'ill get at Burnbrae, or a' dinna ken Drumtochty.”
“Div ye mean that Drumtochty's gaein' tae stand in?” said Jock, much cheered.
“A' mean what a' say, an' the suner ye begin the better. Ye 'ill be takin' the potatoes first,” and the gait of Drumsheugh as he moved off was that of a general on the morning of battle.
The dealers from Muirtown and outlying strangers from Kildrummie bore themselves after the time-honoured manners of a roup—a fine blend of jocose gaiety and business curiosity; but the Glen and stragglers from the upper districts were not in a roup mood, and seemed to have something on their minds. They greeted Burnbrae respectfully, and took a spare refreshment with marked solemnity. Their very faces chilled Jock when he began operations, and reduced to hopeless confusion an opening joke he had prepared on the way from Kildrummie. This severity was hard on Jock, for he was understood to have found his rôle in auctioneering, and a roup was the great day of his life. He was marked out for his office by the fact that he had been twice bankrupt as a farmer, and by a gift of speech which bordered on the miraculous. There were times when he was so carried on political questions in the Muirtown Inn that the meat flew from the end of his fork, and a Drumtochty man, with an understood reference to Jock's eloquence, could only say “Sall” at the Junction, to which another would reply, “He 's an awfu' wratch.” This tribute to Jock's power rested, as is evident, less on the exact terms of the eulogy than on his monopoly of the Drumtochty imagination for two hours. His adroitness in throwing strong points into relief and infirmities into the shade, as well as his accurate knowledge of every man's farming affairs and his insight into their peculiarities as buyers, were almost Satanic. People who did not intend to buy, and would have received no credit if they had, went to hear Jock selling a horse, and left fully rewarded. Indeed, if Whinnie suddenly chuckled on the way home, and did not proceed farther than “It cowes a',” he was understood to be chewing the cud of Jock's humour, and was excused from impossible explanations.