ricks.

In the stack-yard, behind the lengthy range of stables, two men
were thatching. One lay sprawling on the crest of the rick, the
other stood perched on a ladder at a lower level.

The latter, small, old, with shrewd nut-brown countenance, was
Tammas Thornton,, who had served the Moores of Kenmuir for
more than half a century. The other, on top of the stack, wrapped
apparently in gloomy meditation, was Sam'l Todd. A solid Dales--
man, he, with huge hands and hairy arms; about his face an
uncomely aureole of stiff, red hair; and on his features,
deep-seated, an expression of resolute melancholy.

"Ay, the Gray Dogs, bless 'em!" the old man was saying. "Yo'
canna beat 'em not nohow. Known 'em ony time this sixty year, I
have, and niver knew a bad un yet. Not as I say, mind ye, as any on
'em cooms up to Rex son o' Rally. Ah, he was a one, was Rex!
We's never won Cup since his day."

"Nor niver shall agin, yo' may depend," said the other gloomily.

Tammas clucked irritably.

"G'long, Sam'! Todd!" he cried, "Yo' niver happy onless yo'
making' yo'self miser'ble. I niver see sich a chap. Niver win agin?
Why, oor young Bob he'll mak' a right un, I tell yo', and I should
know. Not as what he'll touch Rex son o' Rally, mark ye! I'm niver
saying' so, Sam'l Todd. Ah, he was a one, was Rex! I could tell yo'
a tale or two o' Rex. I mind me boo--"