He cleared, but on foot.

Dad gazed after him, and, as he left the paddock, said:

"One too many f' y' that time, Mick Donovan!" Then to Dave, who was still
looking at the horse: "He's a stolen one right enough, but he's a beauty,
and we'll keep him; and if the owner ever comes for him, well--if he is
the owner--he can have him, that's all."

We had the horse for eighteen months and more. One day Dad rode him to
town. He was no sooner there than a man came up and claimed him. Dad
objected. The man went off and brought a policeman. "Orright"--Dad
said--"TAKE him." The policeman took him. He took Dad too. The lawyer
got Dad off, but it cost us five bags of potatoes. Dad did n't grudge
them, for he reckoned we'd had value. Besides, he was even with the
Donovans for the two cows.




Chapter XI.



A Splendid Year For Corn.




We had just finished supper. Supper! dry bread and sugarless tea. Dad