I'd let summedy else do his"----

"Thon's a brave wee shilty, sur-thon grey wan o' yours,"
broke in the contractor, who had been conversing with Thompson,
whilst looking enviously at Fancy, hitched behind the wagon. "Boys o' dear,"
he added reflectively, "she's jist sich another as may wee Dolly;
an' A've been luckin' fur a match fur Dolly this menny's the day.
How oul' is she, sur?"

"Six, this spring."

"Ay--that! Ye wud n't be fur partin' we her, sur? A'm mortial covetious
fur till git thon baste. Houl' an"--he pondered a moment, glancing first
at the honest-looking hack he was riding, then at the magnificent animal
which carried the half-caste. "Houl' an. Gimme a thrifle fur luck,
an' take ether wan o' them two. A'll thrust ye till do the leck fur me
some time afther."

He had been travelling with the red-headed fellow, and the fascination
of swapping was upon him, poorly backed by his suicidal candour.
The utter simplicity of his bracketing his own two horses--worth,
respectively, to all appearance, £8 and £30--and the frank confession
of his desire to have my mare at any price, made me feel honestly compunctious.

"Now thon's a brave loose lump iv a baste," he continued, following my eye
as I glanced over the half-caste's splendid mount. "Aisy till ketch,
an' as quite as ye plaze."

"How old is he, Mr. M'Nab?"