This worthy was greatly at his ease beneath a pony’s belly, a situation that gave him some protection from the flies. His face was one that hardly invited confidence in his rectitude, being nothing like so pretty as the reference I had received; besides he squinted villainously, and would not look at you straightly out of the middle of the eyes, but leered out of the corners. He got up slowly, yawned, stretched his limbs, approached me with a sidling gait, and asked if I wished to make a purchase.
“On the contrary, I have this horse to sell.”
“Oh, it’s a horse,” said he. “I would never have guessed that, I am sure, now. He makes such a noise when he draws his breath that I supposed he was related to the windmill family.”
I rated Cacheco for this impudence, and told him that he lied.
“He is as sound as a trumpet, you rogue, and I’ll defy the Devil to prove that Babieca is otherwise.”
“Take him to the Devil, then,” said the fellow coarsely, “and see if he will buy him. Besides, he hath a curby hock.”
I admitted that to be the case, but spoke about his pedigree.
“Pedigree!” cried the rude fellow. “My business is in horses, not in pedigrees. Am I a man of fortune, then, that I should buy a pedigree? I will give you five crowns.”
“Five crowns, you rogue! Why, he has been in my family for years!”
“An heirloom, I see,” said the horse-dealer. “Old Mutacho, the dealer in the antique, is over there across the market. You will find him fast asleep like a tortoise, with his head resting against the thigh piece of the Cid.”