The Duke of Silversheen. Que Amissa, Salva

The parlour of the ‘Woolpack' was full of men in from their stations for ‘Land Court Day. ' A babel of talk was toward-mostly ‘shop. ' ‘Footrot! ' shouted a small energetic looking man, ‘I'll tell you how I cure my sheep! You boil vinegar, and arsenic, and blue-stone up-No, Polly, I ordered lager. And then-' ‘Worms,' my dear fellow, another was saying, ‘You can't cure 'em! Don't tell me! You go and make an infernal chemist's shop of your sheep's stomach, ruin the wool and constitution; and, after all your trouble, up bobs the little worm serenely as ever. ' ‘Strike,' came from another corner of the big room. ‘No fear! No strike this year if we hang together like we mean to do. I think we're pretty right in this district, anyhow. Everybody's joined, bar M‘Pherson, and he'll come-to presently. By jingo, here he is! Touch the bell, Bob, and let's have 'em again. ' As the speaker finished, a burly, grey-whiskered man entered with, in his wake, another person who had evidently been closely pressing his companion with argument and persuasion, for the latter was saying irritably,-

‘Once for a', I tell ye, no. I'll nae join. I'll just stan' on my ain bottom, an' employ wha I like. When I want my wool aff, aff it comes; an' wha takes it aff I dinna care a damn, so it's taken off to my satisfaction! Will that do ye?'