“Oh, you do? Now you are wrong. I bought that horse of a friend in Hartford. He is not the man I took him for, nor the horse is not what you took him for. Well, who is to blame? I take it, that it is the man who sold me the horse first. I didn’t think he’d a-done it, mynheer; I didn’t think he’d a-done it.”
Mynheer looked at him in a species of indignant admiration. He had thought that the peddler would not certainly have the surpassing effrontery to deny the fact of his knowledge of the various diseases by which the poor animal was afflicted.
“You means to dell me, den, dat you don’t know dat dis horse ish plind?”
“Is he?”
“Yaw; he ish plind ash a pat. He ish teaf. You not knows dat, either?”
“That explains it! Now, I fired off a gun close to his ear, one day, and he didn’t even jump. That was because he was deaf. Well now!”
“Dere ish one t’ing more. You didn’t know dat de nice tail he carried pelonged to some nodder horse?”
“You don’t say! Not his own tail? If I ain’t beat! Well, mynheer, the rascal has beat us both this time. He has got the money, and we can’t help ourselves. I didn’t tell you that I gave a hundred and ten guilders for the beast, did I? No? Well, you see by that I lost on the trade with you. I always lose, most years.”
Swedlepipe shook his head, and dropped his stick dejectedly. He would have understood the pleasant little fiction on the part of Boston if he had known that a farmer near Hartford had lost a horse by drowning. Boston had taken possession of his tail and teeth, and by the aid of the two had so contrived to patch up an ancient steed which he picked up in the woods, where it had been turned out to die, as to sell him to poor Swedlepipe at an exorbitant rate.