Man, it's music to my ear to hear her champin' her corn a'
the nicht. Na, na! Ah trust her in no stable; an' ah'd like to see the
thief could steal her awa' oot o' my room withoot wakenin' me."
"Well, maybe ye're right," said Dicky. "But mind, there's some cunnin'
anes aboot. Ye'll hae a good lock on your door, nae doot?"
"Aye, I _have_ a good lock, as ye shall see," cried the farmer, caution
swamped in brandy and good fellowship. "What think ye o' that for a
lock?"
"Uhm--m!" murmured Dicky reflectively, carefully scrutinising lock and
key--and he was not unskilled in locks. "Aye, a good lock; a very good
lock. Yes, yes! Just what you want; the very thing. They'll no pick
that."
"No! They'll never pick _that_. Ho! Ho!" laughed the complacent farmer.
Then Dicky said he "maun be steppin'. It was gettin' late." And so,
after one more drink, and another "to the King, God bless him," and yet
one more to "themselves," and a fourth, just to see that the others went
the right way and behaved themselves, the two parted, the best and
dearest of friends.
It might have been the outcome of a good conscience, or perhaps it was
the soothing thought that he had made a good bargain, and had got those
bullocks at a figure lower than he had been prepared to pay; or,
possibly, it may only have been the outcome of that extra last glass or
two that he had had with Dicky.
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