“What, man? Five?” shouted Black Tom down the horse's open mouth. “She'll never see eight the longest day she lives.” “No use decaiving the man,” said the other dealer, speaking in Manx. “She's sixteen--'low she's nine, anyway.” “Fair play, boys; spake English before a poor fellow,” said Black Tom, with a snort. “This brother of mine lows she's seven,” said the first of the two. “You thundering liar,” said Black Tom in Manx. “He says she's sixteen.” “Dealing ponies then?” asked Pete. “Anything, sir; anything. Buying for farmers up Lonan way,” said Black Tom. “Come on,” said Pete; “here's Cæsar with a long-horned cow.” They found the good man tethering a white, long-horned cow to the wheel of the tipped-up gig. “How do, Cæsar? And how much for the long-horn?” said Black Tom. “Aw, look at the base (beast), Mr. Quilliam. Examine her for yourself,” said Cæsar. “Middling fair ewer, good quarter, five calves--is it five, Cæsar?” said Black Tom, holding one of the long horns. “Three, sir, and calving again for February.” “No milk fever? No? Kicks a bit at milking? Never? Fits? Ever had fits, Cæsar?” opening wide one of the cow's eyes. “Have you known me these years for a dacent man, Mr. Quilliam----” began Cæsar in an injured tone. “Well, what's the figure?” “Fourteen pound, sir! and she'll take the road before I'll go home with a pound less!” “Fourteen--what! Ten; I'll give you ten--not a penny more.” “Good day to _you_, Mr. Quilliam,” said Cæsar. Then, as if by an afterthought, “You're an ould friend of mine, Thomas; a very ould friend, Tom--I'll split you the diff'rance.” “Break a straw on it,” said Black Tom; and the transaction was complete. “I've had a clane strike here--the base is worth fifteen,” chuckled Black Tom in Pete's ear as he drove the cow in to a shed beyond. “I must be buying another cow in place of poor ould Horney,” whispered Cæsar as he dived into the cattle stand. “Strike up, Jackie,” shouted Pete. “West of the mine, The day being fine. The tide against us veering.” Ten minutes later Pete heard a fearful clamour, which drowned the noise that he himself was making. Within the shed the confusion of tongues was terrific. “What's this at all?” he asked, crushing through with an innocent face. “The man's cow has fits,” cried Black Tom. “I'll have my money back. The ould psalm-singing Tommy Noddy! did he think he was lifting the collection? My money! My twelve goolden pounds!” If Black Tom had not been as bald as a bladder, he would have torn his hair in his mortification. But Pete pacified him. “Cæsar is looking for another cow--sell him his own back again. Impozz'ble? Who says it's impozz'ble? Cut off her long horns, and he'll never be knowing her from her grandmother.” Then Pete made up to Cæsar and said, “Tom's got a mailie (hornless) cow to sell, and it's the very thing you're wanting.” “Is she a good mailie?” asked Cæsar.