only knew how to make it—the majority, he proclaimed, did n't know enough to get under a tree when it rained. As a dealer, he was a hard nut, never giving more than a "tenner" for a £20 beast, or selling a £10 one for less than £20. And few knew Donovan better than did Dad, or had been taken in by him oftener; but on this occasion Dad was in no easy or benevolent frame of mind.
He sat down, and they talked of crops and the weather, and beat about the bush until Donovan said:
"Have you any fat steers to sell?"
Dad had n't. "But," he added, "can sell you a horse."
"Which one?" asked Donovan, for he knew the horses as well as Dad did—perhaps better.
"The bay—Farmer."
"How much?"
"Seven pounds." Now, Farmer was worth £14, if worth a shilling—that is, before he took sick—and Donovan knew it well.
"Seven," he repeated, ponderingly. "Give you six."
Never before did Dad show himself such au expert in dissimulation. He shook his head knowingly, and enquired of Donovan if he would take the horse for nothing.
"Split the difference, then—make it six-ten?"
Dad rose and looked out the window.
"There he is now," he remarked, sadly, "in the gully there,"
