"But," he added, "I can sell you a horse."
"Which one?" asked Donovan, for he knew the horses as well as Dad
did--perhaps better.
"The bay--Farmer."
"How much?"
"Seven pounds." Now, Farmer was worth fourteen pounds, if worth a
shilling--that is, before he took sick--and Donovan knew it well.
"Seven," he repeated ponderingly. "Give you six."
Never before did Dad show himself such an expert in dissimulation. He
shook his head knowingly, and enquired of Donovan if he would take the
horse for nothing.
"Split the difference, then--make it six-ten?"
Dad rose and looked out the window.
"There he is now," he remarked sadly, "in the gully there."
"Well, what's it to be--six-ten or nothing?" renewed Donovan.
"All right, then," Dad replied, demurely, "take him!"
The money was paid there and then and receipts drawn up. Then, saying
that Mick would come for the horse on the day following, and after
offering a little gratuitous advice on seed-wheat and pig-sticking, the
Donovans left.
Mick came the next day, and Dad showed him Farmer, under the bushes. He
was n't dead, because when Joe sat on him he moved. "There he is,"
said Dad, grinning.
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