“Fifty guilders.”
“Der tuyvel!”
“But what’s the use talking? I must go on and leave the hoss. Want any thing in my line, mynheer?”
“Holt on. Ten Eyck shan’t hav’ dat hoss. I gif’s you sixty guilders for him.”
“Do you think I’d break my word for ten guilders?” cried Boston, taking up his pack.
“Seventy.”
“Say eighty.”
“No; seventy.”
“Seventy-five. Come, git up, Lightfoot!”
“Vell, I gif’s it. I gets de money.”