"Let's kill Daisy," said Hudden at last; "if that doesn't make him
clear out, nothing will."

No sooner said than agreed, and it wasn't dark before Hudden and
Dudden crept up to the little shed where lay poor Daisy trying her
best to chew the cud, though she hadn't had as much grass in the day
as would cover your hand. And when Donald came to see if Daisy was
all snug for the night, the poor beast had only time to lick his
hand once before she died.

Well, Donald was a shrewd fellow, and downhearted though he was,
began to think if he could get any good out of Daisy's death. He
thought and he thought, and the next day you could have seen him
trudging off early to the fair, Daisy's hide over his shoulder,
every penny he had jingling in his pockets. Just before he got to
the fair, he made several slits in the hide, put a penny in each
slit, walked into the best inn of the town as bold as if it belonged
to him, and, hanging the hide up to a nail in the wall, sat down.

"Some of your best whisky," says he to the landlord.

But the landlord didn't like his looks. "Is it fearing I won't pay
you, you are?" says Donald; "why I have a hide here that gives me
all the money I want." And with that he hit it a whack with his
stick and out hopped a penny. The landlord opened his eyes, as you
may fancy.

"What'll you take for that hide?"

"It's not for sale, my good man."