Old Bess's foal!" Donovan told him he was making a mistake.
"Mistake be hanged!" replied Dad, walking round the animal. "Not much of a mistake about him!"
Just here Dave appeared, as was proper.
"Do you know this horse?" Dad asked him. "Yes, of course," he answered, surprisedly, with his eyes open wide, "Bess's foal!—of course it is."
"There you are!" said Dad, grinning triumphantly. Donovan seemed uneasy.
Joe in his turn appeared. Dad put the same question to him. Of course Joe knew Bess's foal—"the one that got stole."
There was a silence.
"Now," said Dad, looking very grave, "what have y' got t' say? Who'd y' get him off, and show 's y'r receipt."
Donovan had nothing to say; he preferred to be silent.
"Then," Dad went on, "clear out of this as fast as you can go, an' think y 'self lucky."
He cleared, but on foot.
Dad gazed after him, and, as he left the paddock, said:
"One too many f' y' that time, Mick Donovan!" Then to Dave, who was still looking at the horse: "He's a stolen one right enough, but he's a beauty, and we'll keep him; and if the owner ever comes for him, well—if he is the owner—he can have him, that 's all."
