“Ten quarts either end of the day, Cæsar, and fifteen pounds of butter a week,” said Pete. “Where's the base, sir?” said Cæsar. They met Black Tom leading a hornless, white cow from the shed to the green. “Are you coming together, Peter?” he said cheerfully. Cæsar eyed the cow doubtfully for a moment, and then said briskly, “What's the price of the mailie, Mr. Quilliam?” “Aw, look at the base first, Mr. Cregeen. Examine her for yourself, sir.” “Yes--yes--well, yes; a middling good base enough. Four calves, Thomas?” “Two, sir, and calves again for January. Twenty-four quarts of new milk every day of life, and butter fit to burst the churn for you.” “No fever at all? No fits? No?” “Aw, have you known me these teens of years, Mr. Cregeen----” “Well, what d'ye say--eleven pounds for the cow, Tom!” “Thirteen, Cæsar; and if you warn an ould friend----” “Hould your hand, Mr. Quilliam; I'm not a man when I've got a bargain.... Manx notes or the dust, Thomas? Goold? Here you are, then--one--two--three--four...” (giving the cow another searching glance across his shoulder). “It's wonderful, though, the straight she's like ould Horney... five--six--seven... in colour and size, I mane... eight--nine--ten... and if she warn a mailie cow, now... eleven--twelve--” (the money hanging from his thumb). “Will that be enough, Mr. Quilliam? No? Half a one, then? Aw, you're hard, Tom... thirteen.” Having paid the last pound, Cæsar stood a moment contemplating his purchase, and then said doubtfully, “Well, if I hadn't... Grannie will be saying it's the same base back-----” (the cow began to reel). “Yes, and it--no, surely--a mailie for all-----” (the cow fell). “It's got the same fits, anyway,” cried Cæsar; and then he rushed to the cow's head. “It _is_ the same base. The horns are going cutting off at her. My money back! Give me my money back--my thirteen yellow sovereigns--the sweat of my brow!” he cried. “Aw, no,” said Black Tom. “There's no money giving back at all. If the cow was good enough for you to sell, she's good enough for you to buy,” and he turned on his heel with a laugh of triumph. Cæsar was choking with vexation. “Never mind, sir,” said Pete. “If Tom has taken a mane advantage of you, it'll be all set right at the Judgment. You've that satisfaction, anyway.” “Have I? No, I haven't,” said Cæsar from between his teeth. “The man's clever. He'll get himself converted before he comes to die, and then there'll not be a word about cutting the horns off my cow.” “Strike up, Jackie,” shouted Pete. “Hail, Isle of Man, Swate ocean làn', I love thy sea-girt border.” XIV. The sky became overcast, rain began to fall, and there was a rush for the carts. In half an hour Tynwald Hill was empty, and the people were splashing off on every side like the big drops of rain that were pelting down.