XIII.
A man in a gig came driving a long-horned cow in front of him. Driver, horse, gig, and cow were like animated shapes of dust, but Pete recognised them.
“Is it yourself, Cæsar? So you're for selling ould Horney?”
“Grieved in my heart I am to do it, sir. Many a good glass of milk she has given to me and mine,” and Cæsar was ready to weep.
“Going falling in fits, isn't she, Cæsar?”
“Hush, man! hush, man!” said Cæsar, looking about. “A good cow, very; but down twice since I left home this morning.”
“I'd give a bad sixpence to see Cæsar selling that cow,” thought Pete.
Three men were bargaining over a horse. Two were selling, the third (it was Black Tom) was buying.
“Rising five years, sir. Sired by Mahomet. Oh, I've got the papers to prove it,” said one of the two.
“What, man? Five?” shouted Black Tom down the horse's open mouth. “She'll never see eight the longest day she lives.”