"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. But whatever it was, the fact remained
that the farmer's slumbers that night were very profound, his snoring
heavier than common. Towards morning, but whilst yet the night was dark,
dreaming that he and the mare were swimming a deep and icy river, he
woke with a start. Everything was strangely still; even the mare made no
sound. And--surely it must be freezing! He was chilled to the bone. And
then, on a brain where yet sang the fumes of brandy, it dawned that he
had absolutely no covering on him. Sleepily he felt with his hands this
way and that, up and down. To no purpose. His blankets must certainly
have fallen on the floor, but try as he might, no hand could he lay on
them. Slipping out of bed to grope for flint and steel wherewith to
strike a light, with soul-rending shock he ran his forehead full butt
against the open door of his room.

"De'il tak' it! What's this?" he bellowed. It was inconceivable that he
had forgotten to close and lock that door before getting into bed,
however much brandy he might have drunk overnight. What was the meaning
of it? At last a light, got from the smouldering kitchen fire, revealed