"Quite possible the chap's as good as either of you," remarked Thompson, seizing the opportunity for reproof. "Do you know anything against him?"
"Well, to quote Madame de Staël," replied Willoughby; "he abuses a man's privilege of being ugly."
"Moreover, he has left undone a thing that he ought to have done," I rejoined. "He ought to be taking a spell of carrying that mare. And pat he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy"...
"'Day, chaps," said Rufus, as he joined us. "Keep on your pins, you beggar"—and he drove both spurs into his mare's shrinking flanks. "Grey mare belongs to you, boss—don't she?—an' the black moke with the Roman nose follerin'? I was thinkin' we might manage to knock up some sort o' swap. Now this mare's a Patriarch, she is; and you might n't think it. I won this here saddle with her at a bit of a meetin' las' week, an' rode her my own self—an' that's oc'lar demonster. I tell you, if this here mare had a week spell, you could n't hold her; an' she'd go a hundred mile between sunrise an' sunset, at the same bat. Yes, boss; it's the breed does it. I seen some good horses about the King, but swelp me Gawd I never seen a patch on this mare; an' you mightn't think it to look at her jist now. Fact is, boss, she wants a week or a fortnit spell. Couldn't we work up some sort o' swap for that ole black moke o' yours, with the big head? If I got a trifle o' cash to boot, I would n't mind slingin' in this saddle, an' takin' yours. Now, boss, don't be a (adj.) fool."
"To 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."
"Then 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."
"Now 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 hes n'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."
"Good 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.
"Yis," 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; on' A'm dam but they got the betther o' me, being three agin wan. A b'lee some o' me ribs is bruk."
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Thompson, straining a point for courtesy.
"Are 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.
