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 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. His holidays were holidays indeed; but his days of
work were dedicated to steady and persevering labour. In countenance
and temper, Wakefield was the model of Old England's merry yeomen,
whose clothyard shafts, in so many hundred battles, asserted her
superiority over the nations, and whose good sabres, in our own time,
are her cheapest and most assured defence. His mirth was readily
excited; for, strong in limb and constitution, and fortunate in
circumstances, he was disposed to be pleased with every thing about
him; and such difficulties as he might occasionally encounter, were,
to a man of his energy, rather matter of amusement than serious
annoyance.
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