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don’t be a (adj.) fool.”
    â€œTo tell you the truth,” I replied, “that black horse has carried a pack so long that he’s about cooked for saddle. But he does me right enough.”
    â€œThen I’ll tell you what I’ll do!” exclaimed Rufus impulsively. “Look here! At a word! I’ll go you an even swap for that little weed of a grey mare! At a word, mind! I’m a reckless sort o’ (person) when I take the notion! but without a word of exaggeration, I wouldn’t do it on’y for being fixed the way I am. This here mare’s got a fortune in her for a man like you.”
    â€œNow howl’ yer tongue!” interposed M’Nab, who, with the half-caste—a lithe, active lad of eighteen—had joined us. “Is it swappin’ ye want wi’ decent men? Sure thon poor craytur iv a baste hesn’t got the sthrenth fur till kerry it own hide, let alone a great gommeril on it back. An’ thon’s furnent ye! Hello, Tamson! begog A didn’t know ye at wanst.”
    â€œGood day, Mr. M’Nab. Alterations since I delivered you that wire at Poondoo. Been in the wars?” For M’Nab was leaning forward and sideways in his saddle, evidently in pain.
    â€œYis,” replied the contractor frankly. “There was some Irish rascals at the pub. thonder, where we stapped las’ night; an’ wan word brung on another, an’ at long an’ at last we fell to, so we did; an’ A ’m dam but they got the betther o’ me, being three agin wan. A b’lee some o’ me ribs is bruk.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that,” said Thompson, straining a point for courtesy.
    â€œAre you an Orangeman too, sonny?” I asked the half-caste aside; for the young fellow had a bunged eye, and a flake of skin off his cheek-bone.
    â€œNo, by Cripes!” responded my countryman emphatically. “Not me. That cove’s a (adj.) liar. He don’t give a dam, s’posin’ a feller’s soul gits bashed out. Best sight I seen for many a day was seein’ him gittin’ kicked. If the mean begger’d on’y square up with me, I’d let summedy else do his”—
    â€œThon’s a brave wee shilty, sur—thon grey wan o’ yours,” broke in the contractor, who had been conversing with Thompson, whilst looking enviously at Fancy, hitched behind the wagon. “Boys o’ dear,” he added reflectively, “she’s just sich another as may wee Dolly; an’ A’ve been luckin’ fur a match fur Dolly this menny’s the day. How oul’ is she, sur?”
    â€œSix, this spring.”
    â€œAy-that! Ye wudn’t be fur partin’ we her, sur? A ’m mortial covetious fur till git thon baste. Houl’ an”—he pondered a moment, glancing first, at the honest-looking hack he was riding, then at the magnificent animal which carried the half-caste. “Houl’ an. Gimme a thrifle fur luck, an’ take ether wan o’ them two. A’ll thrust ye till do the leck fur me some time afther.”
    He had been travelling with the red-headed fellow, and the fascination of swapping was upon him, poorly backed by his suicidal candour. The utter simplicity of his bracketing his own two horses—worth, respectively, to all appearance, £8 and £30—and the frank confession of his desire to have my mare at any price, made me feel honestly compunctious.
    â€œNow thon’s a brave loose lump iv a baste,” he continued, following my eye as I glanced over the half-caste’s splendid mount. “Aisy till ketch, an’ as quite as ye plaze.”
    â€œHow old is he, Mr. M’Nab?”
    â€œHe must be purty oul’, he’s so quite and thractable. Ye kin luck at his mouth. A don’t ondherstand the marks myself.”
    I opened the horse’s mouth. He was just five. I regret to record that I shook my head gravely,