“I promised to show you a hoss, and I will keep my word. Come, mynheer, let us go together.”
The horse was now tied in a little inclosure at the back of the house, whither the party now wended their way. Boston’s jockey-training had not been in vain, and it was really a handsome beast to look at!
“Now, den,” said Ten Eyck, taking out a plethoric purse, “vat you ask for dat hoss?”
“I don’t set any price for him,” replied Boston. “What do you think he is worth.”
“I gif’s you vifty guilders.”
“What do you say, Mynheer Swedlepipe? Shall I let it go for that? I leave it entirely to you.”
“No,” said Paul. “I gif’s sixty.”
“You try to git dat hoss, pudding-head,” cried the other; “I gif’s seventy guilders.”
It is needless to follow the course of the trade—to give the words which passed between the bidders—how Paul, forgetting that he was only bidding in jest, refused to stop when Boston winked at him, but bid higher! Affairs trembled in the balance. Ten Eyck looked at the horse and his rival, and swore in his inmost soul to have the beast, if it took every guilder from his purse. He bid higher, and while he cogitated, Boston had winked Paul into submission.