“That's it, Mark—give him a canter, lad,” cried the old man, joyfully.
“I know what you are at well enough,” resumed the youth, encouraged by these tokens of approval; “you want that grey mare of mine. You have some fine English officer ready to give you an hundred and fifty, or, may be, two hundred guineas, for her, the moment you bring her over to England.”
“May I never—
“That's the trade you drive. Nothing too bad for us—nothing too good for them.”
“See now, Mr. Mark, I hope I may never———”
“Well, Lanty, one word for all; I'd rather send a bullet through her skull this minute, than let you have her for one of your fine English patrons.”
“Won't you let me speak a word at all,” interposed the horse-dealer, in an accent half imploring, half deprecating. “If I buy the mare—and it isn't for want of a sporting offer if I don't—she'll never go to England—no—devil a step. She's for one in the country here beside you; but I won't say more, and there now.” At these words he drew a soiled black leather pocket-book from the breast of his coat, and opening it, displayed a thick roll of bank notes, tied with a piece of string—“There now—there's sixty pounds in that bundle there—at least I hope so, for I never counted it since I got it—take it for her or leave it—just as you like; and may I never have luck with a beast, but there's not a gentleman in the county would give the same money for her.” Here he dropped his voice to a whisper, and added, “Sure the speedy cut is ten pounds off her price any day, between two brothers.”
“What!” said the youth, as his brows met in passion, and his heightened colour showed how his anger was raised.
“Well, well—it's no matter, there's my offer; and if I make a ten pound note of her, sure it's all I live by; I wasn't born to an estate and a fine property, like yourself.”
These words, uttered in such a tone as to be inaudible to the rest, seemed to mollify the young man's wrath, for, sullenly stretching forth his hand, he took the bundle and opened it on the table before him.