“I must be buying another cow in place of poor ould Horney,” whispered Cæsar as he dived into the cattle stand.
“Strike up, Jackie,” shouted Pete.
“West of the mine,
The day being fine.
The tide against us veering.”
Ten minutes later Pete heard a fearful clamour, which drowned the noise that he himself was making. Within the shed the confusion of tongues was terrific.
“What's this at all?” he asked, crushing through with an innocent face.
“The man's cow has fits,” cried Black Tom. “I'll have my money back. The ould psalm-singing Tommy Noddy! did he think he was lifting the collection? My money! My twelve goolden pounds!”
If Black Tom had not been as bald as a bladder, he would have torn his hair in his mortification. But Pete pacified him.
“Cæsar is looking for another cow—sell him his own back again. Impozz'ble? Who says it's impozz'ble? Cut off her long horns, and he'll never be knowing her from her grandmother.”
Then Pete made up to Cæsar and said, “Tom's got a mailie (hornless) cow to sell, and it's the very thing you're wanting.”
“Is she a good mailie?” asked Cæsar.