And turning to the padrone he asked,—
"How much must we pay for that Saint Joseph's ass of yours?"
The mistress of the Saint Joseph's ass, seeing that the business was on once more, had quietly approached, with her hands clasped under her apron.
"Don't speak to me of it," cried compare Neli making off across the field. "Don't speak of it again, I don't want to hear a word."
"If you don't want it, let it be," replied the padrone. "If he does not take it, some one else will. 'A sad wretch is he who has nothing left to sell after the fair.'"
"And I will be heard, santo diavolone!" screamed the friend. "Can't I be permitted to have my say?"
And he ran and caught compare Neli by the jacket, then he came back and whispered something in the padrone's ear as the man was about to return home with his young ass, and he flung his arm round his neck, murmuring,—
"Look here! five lire more or less, and if you don't sell it to-day you won't find another blunderhead like my compare to buy a beast, which between you and me, isn't worth a cigar!"
He also embraced the young ass's mistress, whispered in her ear to win her to his way of thinking. But she shrugged her shoulders and replied with stern face,—
"'Tis my husband's business: I don't mix myself in it. But if he lets it go for less than forty lire he is a dunce, and that's what I say. It cost us more than that."