“Ten quarts either end of the day, Cæsar, and fifteen pounds of butter a week,” said Pete.
“Where's the base, sir?” said Cæsar.
They met Black Tom leading a hornless, white cow from the shed to the green.
“Are you coming together, Peter?” he said cheerfully.
Cæsar eyed the cow doubtfully for a moment, and then said briskly, “What's the price of the mailie, Mr. Quilliam?”
“Aw, look at the base first, Mr. Cregeen. Examine her for yourself, sir.”
“Yes—yes—well, yes; a middling good base enough. Four calves, Thomas?”
“Two, sir, and calves again for January. Twenty-four quarts of new milk every day of life, and butter fit to burst the churn for you.”
“No fever at all? No fits? No?”
“Aw, have you known me these teens of years, Mr. Cregeen——”