"Seven."

"Is he a guid horrse on a camp?" asked M'Gregor.

"No better camp-horse in Queensland," said the drover. "You can chuck
the reins on his neck, an' he'll cut out a beast by himself."

M'Gregor's action in this matter puzzled us. We spent our time
crawling after sheep, and a camp-horse would be about as much use to us
as side-pockets to a pig. We had expected Sandy to rush the fellow
off the place at once, and we couldn't understand how it was that he took
so much interest in him. Perhaps the fever-racked drover
and the old camp-horse appealed to him in a way incomprehensible to us.
We had never been on the Queensland cattle-camps, nor shaken and shivered
with the fever, nor lived the roving life of the overlanders.
M'Gregor had done all this, and his heart (I can see it all now) went out
to the man who brought the old days back to him.

"Ah, weel," he said, "we hae'na muckle use for a camp-horrse here,
ye ken; wi'oot some of these lads wad like to try theer han'
cuttin' oot the milkers' cawves frae their mithers." And the old man
laughed contemptuously, while we felt humbled in the sight of the man
from far back. "An' what'll ye be wantin' for him?" asked M'Gregor.

"Reckon he's worth fifteen notes," said the drover.

This fairly staggered us. Our estimates had varied between
thirty shillings and a fiver. We thought the negotiations
would close abruptly; but M'Gregor, after a little more examination,
agreed to give the price, provided the saddle and bridle,