“Price?” said one.
“Twenty-five dollars,” replied the pedler.
“What breed?” asked another.
“Well, you all see, as for that matter, that he’s short horns.”
“Very plain matter of fact, that,” said a good-natured, jolly sort of a fellow. “Is he Durham, or what is he?”
“That’s more than I know—he’s short horns, but whether Durham or Dedham—how can I tell?”
“Durham!” exclaimed a prompt, rosy-cheeked fellow, stepping up; “why, you simpleton, don’t you know the value of the creature you are selling—even a bigger simpleton might see with half an eye that he’s Durham; look at his white spots—he’s handsome as a picture.”
“Handsome!” retorted another, “I wonder where you see beauty.”
“Well,” said another, “never mind for beauty—what’s his name, Mr. Pedler?”
“Well,” said the pedler, “I don’t know exactly what to call him. I guess we’ll call him Dromeo.”