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Updated: July 18, 2025
Thirteen-eight Fourteen-eight. The whistle blew. Judith couldn't see what had happened, but evidently there had been a foul, for Catherine had a free throw. York Hill let themselves go for a minute. Good for Cathy! Seconds were precious now and the play was swift. Again the whistle. This time Patricia took the ball. York Hill held its breath. Fourteen-ten. Nothing succeeds like success!
"Thirteen pounds for this fine bullock; thirteen-five; thirteen-ten; thirteen-ten for this fine bullock; thirteen-ten; any further bids on thirteen-ten? why, it's worth that for the colour o't; thank ye, sir thirteen-fifteen; fourteen pounds; fourteen pounds for this fine bullock; see how the stot stots about the ring; that joke should raise him another half-sovereign; ah, I knew it would fourteen-five; fourteen-five for this fine bullock; fourteen-ten; no more than fourteen-ten for this fine bullock; going at fourteen-ten; gone Irrendavie."
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