her like in a' Cumberland."

"Wad ye sell?"

"Sell!" cried the farmer. "No for the value o' the hale countryside. Her
like canna be found. Sell! Never i' this world."

"Well, well," said Dicky, "I canna blame ye. She's a graund mare. But
they're kittle times, thir; I wad keep her close, or it micht happen
your stable micht be empty some morning."

"Stable!" roared the fanner boisterously. "Hey! man, ah pit her in no
stable. She sleeps wi' me, man, in my ain room. Ah'm a bachelor, ah am,
an' there's non' to interfere wi' me, and ivvery nicht she's tied to my
ain bed-post. 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."