John was the blacksmith, a big buirdly fellow with a larger blunt head.
"And he has given it too, has John."
"Nay, nay, John's doon—ey, ey, he's doon, is John."
One of the wrestlers had thrown the other, and was standing quietly over him. He was a stalwart young man of eight-and-twenty, brown-haired, clear-eyed, of a ruddy complexion, with a short, thick, curly beard, and the grace and bearing that comes of health and strength and a complete absence of self-consciousness. He smiled cheerfully, and nodded his head in response to loud shouts of applause. "Weel done! Verra weel done! That's the way to ding 'em ower! What sayst tha, Reuben?"
"What a bash it was, to be sure!"
"What dusta think you of yon wrestling, ey, man?"
"Nay, nay, it's verra middling."
"Ever seen owt like it since the good auld days you crack on sa often, auld man?"
"Nay, he doont him verra neat, did Paul—I will allow it."
"There's never a man in Cumberland need take a hand with young Paul Ritson after this."