“It vill be a sight for sore heads, pefore you go, or else my name is not Paul Swedlepipe. Vat you do, you Yankee rascal? You comes to Good Hope mid your flimpsy goots, unt sell dem to honest Dootchmen. I vill preak every pone in your skin.”
“Now, Mynheer Swedlepipe, my dear mynheer, what have I done? Just tell me what I have done? Shake hands.”
“You dry to shake hands mit me unt I preak your head. Vat you done to your tear Mynheer Swedlepipe, eh? Vell, den, I dells you. You prings to dish place von old hoss dat ish not vorth von guilder. Hein, you curry him unt you comb him, unt you make him look ver’ nice. I dinks it ish von ver’ goot horse, unt I pays you von hunder guilders! Sturm unt wetter! Ish dat nottings, eh? Hagel! I kills you deat ash von schmoke-herring.”
The stick flourished about in dangerous proximity to Boston’s ears, who sat upon his pack with an immovable countenance, watching every motion on the part of the other with his sharp eyes. There was something in his face which deterred the Dutchman from striking.
“What’s the matter with the horse, mynheer, I should like to know?”
“Matter! Dere ish not von disease vich a horse can have dat he hash not.”
“Let me know one.”
“He hash de heaves.”
“Yes.”
“And de ring-bone.”