When Donald was safe at home, he pulled out his pocketful of bright gold, and began to weigh each piece in the scales. But Hudden had put a lump of butter at the bottom, and so the last piece of gold stuck fast to the scales when he took them back to Hudden.
If Hudden had stared before, he stared ten times more now, and no sooner was Donald’s back turned, than he was off as hard as he could pelt to Dudden’s.
“Good-evening, Dudden. That vagabond, bad luck to him——”
“You mean Donald O’Neary?”
“And who else should I mean? He’s back here weighing out sackfuls of gold.”
“How do you know that?”
“Here are my scales that he borrowed, and here’s a gold piece still sticking to them.”
Off they went together, and they came to Donald’s door. Donald had finished making the last pile of ten gold pieces. And he couldn’t finish, because a piece had stuck to the scales.
In they walked without an “If you please” or “By your leave.”
“Well, I never!” that was all they could say.