“Well, what d'ye say—eleven pounds for the cow, Tom!”
“Thirteen, Cæsar; and if you warn an ould friend——”
“Hould your hand, Mr. Quilliam; I'm not a man when I've got a bargain.... Manx notes or the dust, Thomas? Goold? Here you are, then—one—two—three—four...” (giving the cow another searching glance across his shoulder). “It's wonderful, though, the straight she's like ould Horney... five—six—seven... in colour and size, I mane... eight—nine—ten... and if she warn a mailie cow, now... eleven—twelve—” (the money hanging from his thumb). “Will that be enough, Mr. Quilliam? No? Half a one, then? Aw, you're hard, Tom... thirteen.”
Having paid the last pound, Cæsar stood a moment contemplating his purchase, and then said doubtfully, “Well, if I hadn't... Grannie will be saying it's the same base back——-” (the cow began to reel). “Yes, and it—no, surely—a mailie for all——-” (the cow fell). “It's got the same fits, anyway,” cried Cæsar; and then he rushed to the cow's head. “It is the same base. The horns are going cutting off at her. My money back! Give me my money back—my thirteen yellow sovereigns—the sweat of my brow!” he cried.
“Aw, no,” said Black Tom. “There's no money giving back at all. If the cow was good enough for you to sell, she's good enough for you to buy,” and he turned on his heel with a laugh of triumph.
Cæsar was choking with vexation.
“Never mind, sir,” said Pete. “If Tom has taken a mane advantage of you, it'll be all set right at the Judgment. You've that satisfaction, anyway.”
“Have I? No, I haven't,” said Cæsar from between his teeth. “The man's clever. He'll get himself converted before he comes to die, and then there'll not be a word about cutting the horns off my cow.”
“Strike up, Jackie,” shouted Pete.
“Hail, Isle of Man,
Swate ocean làn',
I love thy sea-girt border.”