Late in the day came his chance.  Grazing in a neighbouring lush pasture were two fine fat bullocks.  Dicky paused to look, and the more he looked, the more he admired; the more he admired, the more he coveted.  They were magnificent beasts, seldom had he seen finer; nothing could better suit his purpose.  Such beasts would fetch a high price anywhere—­they must be his.  So, with what patience he could command, till darkness should come to his aid, Dicky discreetly retired to a neighbouring copse, where, himself unseen, he might feast his eyes on the fat cattle, and at the same time make sure that if they did happen to be removed from that particular pasture, at least he would not be ignorant of their whereabouts.  But the bullocks fed on undisturbed.  No one came to remove them; only their owner stood regarding them for a while.  Darkness fell, and the call of an owl that hooted eerily, or the distant wail of a curlew, alone broke the stillness.  Then up came Dicky’s best friend, a moon but little past the full.  Everything was in his favour, not a hitch of any kind occurred; quietly and without any fuss the great fat beasts began to make their slow way west across the hills for Cumberland.

Morning came, bringing with it a great hue and cry on that farm bereft of its fat cattle, and things might chance to have fared ill with Dicky had he not adroitly contrived to lay a false trail, that headed the furious owner in hasty pursuit north, towards Tweed and Scotland.  Meanwhile, in due time—­not for worlds would Dicky have overdriven them—­the bullocks and their driver found themselves in Cumberland, near by Lanercost.  There, as they picked their leisurely way along, they encountered an old farmer riding a bay mare, the like of which for quality Dicky had never seen.  His mouth watered.

“Where be’st gangin’ wi’ the nowt?” asked the farmer.

“Oh, to Carlisle,” said Dicky.

“Wad ye sell?”

“Oh aye!” answered Dicky.  “For a price.  But the beasts are good.”

“Yes, they were good,” admitted the farmer.  And Dicky must come in, and have a drink, and they’d talk about the oxen.  So in they went to the farmer’s house, and long they talked, and the more they talked the more the farmer wanted those bullocks; but the more he wanted them the more he tried to beat Dicky down.  But Dicky was in no haste to sell; he could do better at Carlisle, said he; and the upshot, of course, was that he got the price he asked.  And then said Dicky, when the money was paid, and they had had another drink or two, and a mighty supper: 

“That was a bonnie mare ye were riding.”

“Aye,” said the farmer.  “An’ she’s as good as she’s bonnie.  There’s no her like in a’ Cumberland.”

“Wad ye sell?”

“Sell!” cried the farmer.  “No for the value o’ the hale countryside.  Her like canna be found.  Sell!  Never i’ this world.”

“Well, well,” said Dicky, “I canna blame ye.  She’s a graund mare.  But they’re kittle times, thir; I wad keep her close, or it micht happen your stable micht be empty some morning.”