Old Swedlepipe scratched his head. He had sworn by the name of his patron saint, worthy Nicholas, that he would give Boston Bainbridge a taste of wholesome Dutch cudgel, if he ever dared to set foot in Good Hope again. And yet here he was, and had purged himself of all stain, by saddling the guilt upon some unfortunate third person. “I’ll tell you, squire,” said he, “I’m sorry for this. If I had only _known_ that the horse was a bad one, I would have brought you another from Windsor. Oh, you better believe they have horses _there_.” “Yaw, dey must have dem _dere_, for dey never prings dem _here_.” “Ha,” said the other. “There are some sharp people down to Windsor. There’s Holmes, now. You know Holmes? He is the man who wouldn’t stop when you threatened to blow his sloop out of water. Of course they don’t send away their best horses often. Sometimes they do. You see this pony? If I had known that you would want a horse you might have had him. You know Ten Eyck?” “Yaw. Pig rascal he is!” “Yes. Just so. Wal, that hoss is for him.” “For Ten Eyck?” “Yes.” “’Tain’t a very pig hoss.” “No, ’tain’t. But it’s the best hoss of its kind in the country. He ain’t very fast, to be sure. But, for all that, if he ran a race against a red deer, I should know which to put my money on. That’s the same hoss, mynheer, that went from Providence to Salem in jist tew days. You don’t believe it? Wal, I don’t ask it of you. Don’t take _my_ word for it. I don’t say that the hoss has got a good eye. ’Twouldn’t do me any good; you wouldn’t believe me. Look for yourself.” “Did Ten Eyck send for dat hoss?” “Oh, never mind,” replied Boston, in high dudgeon. “’Tain’t no use for you to ask. You can’t have this hoss.” “Not if I gif’s you money?” “Hey?” “Not if I gif’s you more money as Ten Eyck?” “You wouldn’t.” “How much he gif’s?” “Fifty guilders.” “Hein!” “Fifty guilders.” “Der tuyvel!” “But what’s the use talking? I must go on and leave the hoss. Want any thing in my line, mynheer?” “Holt on. Ten Eyck shan’t hav’ dat hoss. I gif’s you sixty guilders for him.” “Do you think I’d break my word for ten guilders?” cried Boston, taking up his pack. “Seventy.” “Say eighty.” “No; seventy.” “Seventy-five. Come, git up, Lightfoot!” “Vell, I gif’s it. I gets de money.” “All right. I’ll stay here. By the way, where is that other hoss?” “Turned him out to commons.” “I’ll give you five guilders for him.” “Dake him. He not wort two kreutzers.” “Not to _you_,” replied the Yankee; “but to me he may be of use. Git the money.” Swedlepipe plunged into the cabin, and reappeared a moment after, and counted the money into Boston’s hand. “Any thing else I can do for you, mynheer?” “Yaw.” “What is it?” “Vell, I dells you. Shoost you sheat Ten Eyck so bad ash you sheat me, unt I gif’s you _den_ guilders!” “Is that a bargain, squire?” “Yaw! He vound out dat you selt me dat hoss, unt he laughs von whole day. Now, you sheat him. Vill you do it?”