“She might be a first-prize winner at the Royal by her shape and markings; but, as matters stand, she’ll bring only fifteen pounds from a butcher. I stand to lose forty-five pounds by the bargain.”
“You canna fly i’ t’ feäce o’ Providence, Mr. Pickerin’.”
“Providence has little to do with it, I fancy. I can sell her to somebody else, if I like to work a swindle with her. I had my doubts at the time that she was too cheap.”
John Bolland rose. His red face was dusky with anger, and it sent a pang through Martin’s heart to see something of fear there, too.
“Noo, what are ye drivin’ at?” he growled, speaking with ominous calmness.
“You know well enough,” came the straight answer. “The poor thing has something wrong with her, and she will never hold a calf. Look here, Bolland, meet me fairly in the matter. Either give me back twenty pounds, and we’ll cry ‘quits,’ or sell me another next spring at the same price, and I’ll take my luck.”
Perhaps this via media might have been adopted had it presented itself earlier. But the word “swindle” stuck in the farmer’s throat, and he sank back into his chair.
“Nay, nay,” he said. “A bargain’s a bargain. You’ve gotten t’ papers——”
It was the buyer’s turn to rise.