(An old, wiry man.) A fine muster, this year.

(A dour man, about 45 years old.) Aye.

The best season I mind for ten years. (Working with sheep’s leg.) Plague take it, it’s slipped. Lie still you bleatin’ fule ye! And sheep s’d fetch a guid price this year and all.

Aye.

I’m thinkin’ these sheep will be making the fortune of the young masters, but they do nought but make work for us.

(Spits.) Aye.

The young masters must get an extra man, we never had to handle so many sheep.

Men’ll be scarce now.

They will that. Do you hear they recruitin’ fellows are scourin’ the country for likely lads?

Aye.

When did you know it?

’Bout a week ago.

(Reproachfully.) And ye kept a tale like that from me—and me that glad of any bit of news in this lonesomeness. I call that nasty of ye.

Aye.

And what else do ye know ye might tell me if—if, well, if I had a wee drop of something to loosen your lips—(Pulls out a flask and a tin cup and pours a small drink—the dogs come up.) Down Jock—get out Scottie. What news have ye for this, eh?

Na-na. News first. It mayn’t be worth it all.

The new young lady from England is comin’ this afternoon.

What young lady? Why don’t I know a’ these wild doin’s? What’s she like. Who’s she stayin’ with?

Old man Lee and his daughter.

Have you seen her? What’s she like?

(Stretching out his hand for his drink.) I’ve earned it.

(Drawing it away.) Ye’ll tell me what she’s like first.