d entered the yard. Jock Gilmour, the "orra" man,
was washing down the legs of a horse beside the trough. It was Gourlay's
own cob, which he used for driving round the countryside. It was a
black--Gourlay "made a point" of driving with a black. "The brown for
sturdiness, the black for speed," he would say, making a maxim of his
whim to give it the sanction of a higher law.

Gilmour was in a wild temper because he had been forced to get up at
five o'clock in order to turn several hundred cheeses, to prevent them
bulging out of shape owing to the heat, and so becoming cracked and
spoiled. He did not raise his head at his master's approach. And his
head being bent, the eye was attracted to a patent leather collar which
he wore, glazed with black and red stripes. It is a collar much affected
by ploughmen, because a dip in the horse-trough once a month suffices
for its washing. Between the striped collar and his hair (as he stooped)
the sunburnt redness of his neck struck the eye vividly--the cropped
fair hairs on it showing whitish on the red skin.

The horse quivered as the cold water swashed about its legs, and turned
playfully to bite its groom. Gilmour, still stooping, dug his elbow up
beneath its ribs. The animal wheeled in anger, but Gilmour ran to its
head with most manful blasphemy, and led it to the stable door. The off
hind leg was still unwashed.

"Has the horse but the three legs?" said Gourlay suavely.

Gilmour brought the horse back to the trough, muttering sullenly.

"Were ye saying anything?" said Gourlay. "_Eih?_"

Gilmour sulked out and said nothing; and his master smiled grimly at the
sudden redness that swelled his neck and ears to the verge of bursting.

A boy, standing in his shirt and trousers at an open window of the house
above, had looked down at the scene with craning interest--big-eyed. He
had been alive to every turn and phase of it--the horse's quiver of
delight and fear, his skittishness, the groom's ill-temper, and
Gourlay's grinding will. Eh, but his father was a caution! How easy he
had downed Jock Gilmour! The boy was afraid of his father himself, but
he liked to see him send other folk to the right about. For he was John
Gourlay, too. Hokey, but his father could down them!

Mr. Gourlay passed on to the inner yard, which was close to the scullery
door. The paved little court, within its high wooden walls, was
curiously fresh and clean. A cock-pigeon strutted round, puffing his
glea