"Oh, go and play!" grunted the other, turning away sullenly. "What's the game, anyhow?"
"I've taken a fancy to that coat, that's all. It used to belong to my mate here, the man who rode the bull through Wagga. But another chappie mistook it for one of his, and sold it to a nigger named Mucilage, who in turn sold it to you—for six bob."
"I see—and you want it back, hey? Well, it happens I've got to like this coat, and I don't want to part with it, see?"
Billy not only did see this particular point, but saw also that he was up against a pretty shrewd bargainer, who was ready to turn their own eagerness for the jacket into ready cash. He was too anxious, however, to bluff.
"Look here," he broke in, "I'll give you ten bob for the coat, and fix everything up. No fuss—give me the coat, and this half-note will be yours."
The red-faced boy's little eyes gleamed. "Ten bob—ten bob for a coat I've taken a fancy to," he murmured. "Look here, mate, I can't part with the coat—not under a quid. It's a good coat."
"It's certainly a good coat, but—" Patch was dubious.
"Well, then," said Billy desperately, "I'll make it a quid, just to please you. There you are—a pound note—and now, the coat."
"Hold hard, hold hard." The country boy's interest had been roused by this reckless bidding for the old jacket, which was scarcely worth a third of the money Billy Faraday now flashed before his eyes. What was wrong with the coat, he asked himself; or, rather, what was right with it? "No, I don't think I'll sell," went on the yokel shrewdly, "until I've had a good look over it."
"Until you've what?" asked the horrified Billy.