“No one could call them maar. It is a dry season and I haven’t been able to get them much forage by the way, but no one can call them maar.”
“How much do you want for them?” asked Braddon.
“Sixty pounds apiece, not a sixpence less,” declared Carol. “Don’t you think I’m right, Miss Chrissie?”
Chrissie, with her father’s eye on her, knew better than to respond.
“Hundred and twenty the pair! A stiff price,” remarked the engineer.
“Not too stiff. Oom Nick knows the value of a good horse and is able to pay it,” said Carol firmly. He may have been no farmer but he knew his business as a horse-seller.
“Their feet are too soft for this veld,” grumbled old Retief.
“Not a bit of it, Oom. Clan-William horses are hard-veld horses—iron feet and mouths of velvet. You know it good enough.”
“Well, and what’s the matter with my own horses that I drive to kerk every Sunday?” asked Nick Retief aggressively.
“Oom, they are not bad horses. I’m not saying they are bad horses, but they are five years old and don’t match—you know they don’t match. One has got a bless (white blaze down forehead) and the other has a white foot.”