"Yes," said the overseer. "Just because I have a leaning towards the boy. I don't like the way he is going on—head over ears in love with that pale-faced girl at the Hortobágy inn. 'Tis a bad business. The girl has a sweetheart already. A csikós, who is away soldiering; and if he comes home on leave and the lads meet, it will be like two angry bulls who mean business. Much better that he should go away and take to some pretty little Annie up there, and forget all about his yellow rose."
In the meantime the veterinary had examined every beast separately, and had made out a certificate for each. Then the taligás marked the buyer's initials in vermilion on their hides—for all the herdsmen can write.
The clattering hoofs of the horse which carried the cowboy could now be heard. His sleepiness had vanished with the sharp ride, and the morning air had cleared his head. He sprang smartly from the saddle, at some distance from the corral, and came up leading his horse by the bridle.
"You rag-tag and bobtail!" called out the overseer from the front of the enclosure. "Where the devil have you been?"
Not a word said the lad, but slipped the saddle and bridle off his horse. It was white with foam, and taking a corner of his coat he rubbed its chest, wiped it down, and fastened on the halter.
"Where were you? by Pontius Pilate's copper angel! Coming an hour behind the gentry you should have brought with you. Eh, scoundrel?"
Still the lad was silent, fiddled with the horse, and hung saddle and bridle on the rack.
The overseer's face grew purple. He screamed the louder, "Will you answer me, or shall I have to bore a hole in your ears?"
Then the cowboy spoke. "You know, master, that I am deaf and dumb."
"Damn the day you were born!" cried the overseer.