“Pity we can’t sell him,” answered Peter.
“Can’t sell him!” repeated the farmer; “I’m not so sure about that. Maybe he’d go sound now. He doesn’t show no signs of lameness.”
“Wouldn’t last a month on the roads,” said Peter.
The farmer’s face clouded a little. “Well,” he said hesitatingly, “that’s Buckle’s business. He can look him over, and if he don’t see nothing wrong—”
“We hadn’t ought to sell him,” said Peter in exactly the same voice. “He’s not fit for the roads. Take him off soft ground and he’d go queer in a week.”
“He might or he mightn’t,” said the farmer impatiently; “all I know is I want the cash. It’d just pay that bill of Jones’s, as is always bothering for his money. I declare I hate going into Lenham for fear of meeting that chap.”
Peter had begun to toss the hay near him with his pitchfork. He did not look at his father or change his expression, but he said again:
“Knowing what we do, we hadn’t ought to sell him.”
The farmer struck his stirrup-iron so hard with his stick that even the steady grey pony was startled.
“I wish,” he said with an oath, “that you’d never found it out then. I’d like to be square and straight about the horse as well as anyone. I’ve always liked best to be straight, but I’m too hard up to be so particular as that comes to. It’s easy enough,” he added moodily, “for a man to be honest with his pockets full of money.”