“Middling fair ewer, good quarter, five calves—is it five, Cæsar?” said Black Tom, holding one of the long horns.
“Three, sir, and calving again for February.”
“No milk fever? No? Kicks a bit at milking? Never? Fits? Ever had fits, Cæsar?” opening wide one of the cow's eyes.
“Have you known me these years for a dacent man, Mr. Quilliam——” began Cæsar in an injured tone.
“Well, what's the figure?”
“Fourteen pound, sir! and she'll take the road before I'll go home with a pound less!”
“Fourteen—what! Ten; I'll give you ten—not a penny more.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Quilliam,” said Cæsar. Then, as if by an afterthought, “You're an ould friend of mine, Thomas; a very ould friend, Tom—I'll split you the diff'rance.”
“Break a straw on it,” said Black Tom; and the transaction was complete.
“I've had a clane strike here—the base is worth fifteen,” chuckled Black Tom in Pete's ear as he drove the cow in to a shed beyond.