Old Swedlepipe scratched his head. He had sworn by the name of his patron saint, worthy Nicholas, that he would give Boston Bainbridge a taste of wholesome Dutch cudgel, if he ever dared to set foot in Good Hope again. And yet here he was, and had purged himself of all stain, by saddling the guilt upon some unfortunate third person.
“I’ll tell you, squire,” said he, “I’m sorry for this. If I had only known that the horse was a bad one, I would have brought you another from Windsor. Oh, you better believe they have horses there.”
“Yaw, dey must have dem dere, for dey never prings dem here.”
“Ha,” said the other. “There are some sharp people down to Windsor. There’s Holmes, now. You know Holmes? He is the man who wouldn’t stop when you threatened to blow his sloop out of water. Of course they don’t send away their best horses often. Sometimes they do. You see this pony? If I had known that you would want a horse you might have had him. You know Ten Eyck?”
“Yaw. Pig rascal he is!”
“Yes. Just so. Wal, that hoss is for him.”
“For Ten Eyck?”
“Yes.”
“’Tain’t a very pig hoss.”