But
you cannot have more of a sow than a grumph. It's
shame my father's knife should ever slash a haggis
for the like of him,''
Thus saying, (but saying it in Gaelic,) Robin
drove on his cattle, and waved farewell to all behind
him. He was in the greater haste, because
he expected to join at Falkirk a comrade and brother
in profession, with whom he proposed to travel
in company.
Robin Oig's chosen friend was a young Englishman,
Harry Wakefield by name, well known at
every northern market, and in his way as much
famed and honoured as our Highland driver of
bullocks. He was nearly six feet high, gallantly
formed to keep the rounds at Smithfield, or maintain
the ring at a wrestling match; and although
he might have been overmatched, perhaps, among
the regular professors of the Fancy, yet, as a yokel
or rustic, or a chance customer, he was able to
give a bellyful to any amateur of the pugilistic art.
Doncaster races saw him in his glory, betting his
guinea, and generally successfully; nor was there
a main fought in Yorkshire, the feeders being persons
of celebrity, at which he was not to be seen
if business permitted. But though a _sprack_ lad,
and fond of pleasure and its haunts, Harry Wakefield
was steady, and not the cautious Robin Oig
M`Combich himself was more attentive to the main
chance.
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