“But what can I do?” cried Lewis in despair.  “I have no profession.  I am useless.”

“Useless!  Ye are a grand judge o’ sheep and nowt, and ye ken a horse better than ony couper.  Ye can ride like a jockey and drive like a Jehu, and there’s no your equal in these parts with a gun or a fishing-rod.  Forbye, I would rather walk ae mile on the hill wi’ ye than twae, for ye gang up a brae-face like a mawkin!  God!  There’s no a single man’s trade that ye’re no brawly fitted for.  And then ye’ve a heap o’ book-lear that folk learned ye away about England, though I cannot speak muckle on that, no being a jidge.”

Lewis grinned at the portraiture.  “You do me proud.  But let’s talk about serious things.  You were on sheep when I came in.  Get back to them and give me your mind on Cheviots.  The lamb sales promise well.”

For twenty minutes the room hummed with technicalities.  One man might support the conversation on alien matters, but on sheep the humblest found a voice:  Lewis watched the ring of faces with a sharp delight.  The election had made him sick of his fellows—­fellows who chattered and wrangled and wallowed in the sentimental.  But now every line of these brown faces, the keen blue eyes, the tawny, tangled beards, and the inimitable soft-sounding southern speech, seemed an earnest of a real and strenuous life.  He began to find a new savour in existence.  The sense of his flat incompetence left him, and he found himself speaking heartily and laughing with zest.

“It’s as I say,” said the herd of the Redswirebead.  “I’m getting an auld man and a verra wise ane, and the graund owercome for the world is just ‘Pay no attention.’  Ye’ll has heard how the word cam’ to be.  It was Jock Linklater o’ the Caulds wha was glen notice to quit by the laird, and a’ the countryside was vexed to pairt wi’ Jock, for he was a popular character.  But about a year after a friend meets him at Gledsmuir merkit as crouse as ever.  ’Lodsake, Jock, man, I thocht ye were awa’,’ says he.  ‘No,’ says Jock, ‘no.  I’m here as ye see.’  ’But how did ye manage it?’ he asked.  ‘Fine,’ says Jock.  ’They sent me a letter tellin’ me I must gang; but I just payed no attention.  Syne they sent me a blue letter frae the lawyer’s, but I payed no attention.  Syne the factor cam’ to see me.’  ‘Ay, and what did ye do then, Jock?’ says he.  ‘Oh, I payed no attention.  Syne the laird cam’ himsel.’  ’Ay, that would fricht ye,’ he says.  ‘No, no a grain,’ said Jock, verra calm.  ’I just payed no attention, and here I am.’”

Lewis laughed, but the rest of the audience suffered no change of feature.  The gloaming bad darkened, and the little small-paned window was a fretted sheet of dark and lucent blue.  Grateful odours of food and drink and tobacco hung in the air, though tar and homespun and the far-carried fragrance of peat fought stoutly for the mastery.