The quack, moving among the animals with an easy, familiarity, glanced
them over quickly but carefully, and shook his head.

"What!" exclaimed the gypsy with well feigned surprise; "ze señor doez
not zee ze horse he wanz?"

"Horses!" exclaimed the quack; "these are not horses. These are
boneyards. Every one of them is as much worse than mine as mine is than
the black stallion you stole in Pittsburg on the twenty-first day of
last October."

"Worze zan yourz! It eez impozzeeble!" answered the gypsy, as if he had
not heard the accusation. "Ziz horze ov yourz eez what you call a
crow-zcare! Zhe eez two hunner year ol'. Her teeth are fell oud. Zhe haz
ze zpavins. Zhe haz ze ringa bonze. But, señor," growing suddenly
respectful, and spreading out his hands in open and persuasive gestures,
"ere eez a horze zat eez a horze. Ee knowz more zan a man! Ee gan work
een ze arnez, ee gan work een ze zaddle; ee gan drot; ee can gallop; ee
gan bead ze winz!"

The gypsy had played his part well and concealed with consummate art
whatever surprise he might have felt at the charge of theft. His
attitude was free, his look was bold and his manner full of confidence.

The demeanor of the quack suddenly altered. From that of an easy
nonchalance, it turned to savage determination.

"Baltasar," he said, his face white and hard; "let us stop our acting.
Where is that stallion?"