o make it--the majority, he proclaimed, did n't know enough to get
under a tree when it rained. As a dealer, he was a hard nut, never
giving more than a "tenner" for a twenty pound beast, or selling a ten
pound one for less than twenty pounds. And few knew Donovan better
than did Dad, or had been taken in by him oftener; but on this occasion
Dad was in no easy or benevolent frame of mind.

He sat down, and they talked of crops and the weather, and beat about
the bush until Donovan said:

"Have you any fat steers to sell?"

Dad had n't. "But," he added, "I can sell you a horse."

"Which one?" asked Donovan, for he knew the horses as well as Dad
did--perhaps better.

"The bay--Farmer."

"How much?"

"Seven pounds." Now, Farmer was worth fourteen pounds, if worth a
shilling--that is, before he took sick--and Donovan knew it well.

"Seven," he repeated ponderingly. "Give you six."

Never before did Dad show himself such an expert in dissimulation. He
shook his head knowingly, and enquired of Donovan if he would take the
horse for nothing.

"Split the difference, then--make it six-ten?"

Dad rose and looked out the window.

"There he is now," he remarked sadly, "in the gully there."

"Well, what's it to be--six-ten or nothing?" renewed Donovan.

"All right, then," Dad replied, demurely, "take him!"

The money was paid there and then and receipts drawn up. Then, saying
that Mick would come for the horse on the day following, and after
offering a little gratuitous advice on seed-wheat and pig-sticking, the
Donovans left.

Mick came the next day, and Dad showed him Farmer, under the bushes.
He was n't dead, because when Joe sat on him he moved. "There he is,"
said Dad, grinning.

Mick remained seated on his horse, bewildered-looking, staring first at
Farmer, then at Dad.

"Well?" Dad remarked, still grinning. Then Mick spoke feelingly.

"YOU SWINDLING OLD CRAWLER!" he said, and galloped away. It was well
for him he got a good start.

For long after that we turned the horses and cows into the little
paddock at night, and if ever the dog barked Dad would jump up and go
out in his shirt.

We put them back into the paddock again, and the first night they were
there two cows got out and went away, taking with them the chain that
fastened the slip-rails. We never saw or heard of them again; but Dad
treasured them in his heart. Often, when he was thoughtful, he would
ponder out plans for getting