"Isn't it plain enough?" replied Jack, quietly standing his ground. "That is the description of the stolen horse; the horse is down in your pasture."
"Do you mean to say I've stole your hoss?" demanded Peakslow, his voice trembling with passion.
"Not by any means. He may have passed through a dozen hands since the thief had him. All I know is, he is in your possession now."
"And what if he is?"
"Why, naturally a man likes to have what is his own, doesn't he? Suppose a man steals your horse; you find him after a while in my stable; is he your horse, or mine?"
"But how do I know but this is a conspyracy to cheat me out of a hoss?" retorted Peakslow, looking again at the handbill, with a terrible frown. "It may have all been cut and dried aforehand. You've your trap sot, and, soon as ever the animal is in my hands, ye spring it. How do I know the hoss is yourn, even if ye have got a description of him? Anybody can make a description of anybody's hoss, and then go and claim him. Besides, how happens it a boy like you owns a hoss, anyway?"
In a few words Jack told his story, accounting at once for his ownership, and for the scars on the horse's side and hip.
"There are two other scars I can show you, under his belly. I didn't mention them in the handbill, because they are not noticeable, unless one is looking for them."
"Ye may show me scars all over him, fur's I know," was Peakslow's reply to this argument. "That may prove that he's been hurt by suth'n or other,—elephant, or not; but it don't prove you ever owned him."
"I can satisfy you with regard to that," said Jack, confidently. "Do you object to going down with me and looking at him?"