The horse was sound in other particulars, and as a roarer for slow marching is as good as any other animal, I determined to buy him—at the same time telling the owner that the fact of the horse's wind not being all right would considerably deteriorate from his value.
"Deteriorate from his value!" said the man, his wall-eye glaring at me ferociously. "No, Effendi, he makes a little noise, but that is nothing; he is a useful horse, and when I let him out on hire in Constantinople he never runs over the blind beggars. He gives warning of his approach, and they hear him coming."
I had by this time selected two more horses, and now came the knotty point of what price I was to give for the four.
"How much do you want for them?" I inquired.
"How much, Effendi? Sixty liras (Turkish pounds of 18s.) I want, and not a piastre less; even then I should be a ruined man."
"Sixty liras! Sixty dogs and sixty sons of dogs!" I replied, attempting to address him in the language easiest understood by a Turkish peasant.
"Ah! Effendi," said the horse-dealer, "you know the value. To you there is much brain, but the Effendi's eyes will show him that sixty liras are nothing for the horses—besides, sixty liras, what are they? Sixty grains from the sand on the seashore to the gold in the Effendi's purse."
I was not going to be bamboozled in that way: taking forty liras from my pocket, I showed him the money.
"There," I said, "that is all I shall give you, and all that your horses are worth."
"Look! forty liras!" The man attempted to impart to his countenance an indignant air, but the sight of the gold was too much for him. "Only forty liras!"