A man in a gig came driving a long-horned cow in front of him.  Driver, horse, gig, and cow were like animated shapes of dust, but Pete recognised them.

“Is it yourself, Caesar?  So you’re for selling ould Horney?”

“Grieved in my heart I am to do it, sir.  Many a good glass of milk she has given to me and mine,” and Caesar was ready to weep.

“Going falling in fits, isn’t she, Caesar?”

“Hush, man! hush, man!” said Caesar, looking about.  “A good cow, very; but down twice since I left home this morning.”

“I’d give a bad sixpence to see Caesar selling that cow,” thought Pete.

Three men were bargaining over a horse.  Two were selling, the third (it was Black Tom) was buying.

“Rising five years, sir.  Sired by Mahomet.  Oh, I’ve got the papers to prove it,” said one of the two.

“What, man?  Five?” shouted Black Tom down the horse’s open mouth.  “She’ll never see eight the longest day she lives.”

“No use decaiving the man,” said the other dealer, speaking in Manx.  “She’s sixteen ­’low she’s nine, anyway.”

“Fair play, boys; spake English before a poor fellow,” said Black Tom, with a snort.

“This brother of mine lows she’s seven,” said the first of the two.

“You thundering liar,” said Black Tom in Manx.  “He says she’s sixteen.”

“Dealing ponies then?” asked Pete.

“Anything, sir; anything.  Buying for farmers up Lonan way,” said Black Tom.

“Come on,” said Pete; “here’s Caesar with a long-horned cow.”

They found the good man tethering a white, long-horned cow to the wheel of the tipped-up gig.

“How do, Caesar?  And how much for the long-horn?” said Black Tom.

“Aw, look at the base (beast), Mr. Quilliam.  Examine her for yourself,” said Caesar.

“Middling fair ewer, good quarter, five calves ­is it five, Caesar?” said Black Tom, holding one of the long horns.

“Three, sir, and calving again for February.”

“No milk fever?  No?  Kicks a bit at milking?  Never?  Fits?  Ever had fits, Caesar?” opening wide one of the cow’s eyes.

“Have you known me these years for a dacent man, Mr. Quilliam ­” began Caesar in an injured tone.

“Well, what’s the figure?”

“Fourteen pound, sir! and she’ll take the road before I’ll go home with a pound less!”

“Fourteen ­what!  Ten; I’ll give you ten ­not a penny more.”

“Good day to you, Mr. Quilliam,” said Caesar.  Then, as if by an afterthought, “You’re an ould friend of mine, Thomas; a very ould friend, Tom ­I’ll split you the diff’rance.”

“Break a straw on it,” said Black Tom; and the transaction was complete.

“I’ve had a clane strike here ­the base is worth fifteen,” chuckled Black Tom in Pete’s ear as he drove the cow in to a shed beyond.

“I must be buying another cow in place of poor ould Horney,” whispered Caesar as he dived into the cattle stand.

“Strike up, Jackie,” shouted Pete.

     “West of the mine,
     The day being fine. 
          The tide against us veering.”

Ten minutes later Pete heard a fearful clamour, which drowned the noise that he himself was making.  Within the shed the confusion of tongues was terrific.

“What’s this at all?” he asked, crushing through with an innocent face.

“The man’s cow has fits,” cried Black Tom.  “I’ll have my money back.  The ould psalm-singing Tommy Noddy! did he think he was lifting the collection?  My money!  My twelve goolden pounds!”

If Black Tom had not been as bald as a bladder, he would have torn his hair in his mortification.  But Pete pacified him.

“Caesar is looking for another cow ­sell him his own back again.  Impozz’ble?  Who says it’s impozz’ble?  Cut off her long horns, and he’ll never be knowing her from her grandmother.”

Then Pete made up to Caesar and said, “Tom’s got a mailie (hornless) cow to sell, and it’s the very thing you’re wanting.”

“Is she a good mailie?” asked Caesar.

“Ten quarts either end of the day, Caesar, and fifteen pounds of butter a week,” said Pete.

“Where’s the base, sir?” said Caesar.

They met Black Tom leading a hornless, white cow from the shed to the green.

“Are you coming together, Peter?” he said cheerfully.

Caesar eyed the cow doubtfully for a moment, and then said briskly, “What’s the price of the mailie, Mr. Quilliam?”

“Aw, look at the base first, Mr. Cregeen.  Examine her for yourself, sir.”

“Yes ­yes ­well, yes; a middling good base enough.  Four calves, Thomas?”

“Two, sir, and calves again for January.  Twenty-four quarts of new milk every day of life, and butter fit to burst the churn for you.”

“No fever at all?  No fits?  No?”

“Aw, have you known me these teens of years, Mr. Cregeen ­”

“Well, what d’ye say ­eleven pounds for the cow, Tom!”

“Thirteen, Caesar; and if you warn an ould friend ­”

“Hould your hand, Mr. Quilliam; I’m not a man when I’ve got a bargain....  Manx notes or the dust, Thomas?  Goold?  Here you are, then ­one ­two ­three ­four...” (giving the cow another searching glance across his shoulder).  “It’s wonderful, though, the straight she’s like ould Horney... five ­six ­seven... in colour and size, I mane... eight ­nine ­ten... and if she warn a mailie cow, now... eleven ­twelve ­” (the money hanging from his thumb).  “Will that be enough, Mr. Quilliam?  No?  Half a one, then?  Aw, you’re hard, Tom... thirteen.”

Having paid the last pound, Caesar stood a moment contemplating his purchase, and then said doubtfully, “Well, if I hadn’t...  Grannie will be saying it’s the same base back-----” (the cow began to reel).  “Yes, and it--no, surely--a mailie for all-----” (the cow fell).  “It’s got the same fits, anyway,” cried Caesar; and then he rushed to the cow’s head.  “It is the same base.  The horns are going cutting off at her.  My money back!  Give me my money back ­my thirteen yellow sovereigns ­the sweat of my brow!” he cried.

“Aw, no,” said Black Tom.  “There’s no money giving back at all.  If the cow was good enough for you to sell, she’s good enough for you to buy,” and he turned on his heel with a laugh of triumph.

Caesar was choking with vexation.

“Never mind, sir,” said Pete.  “If Tom has taken a mane advantage of you, it’ll be all set right at the Judgment.  You’ve that satisfaction, anyway.”

“Have I?  No, I haven’t,” said Caesar from between his teeth.  “The man’s clever.  He’ll get himself converted before he comes to die, and then there’ll not be a word about cutting the horns off my cow.”

“Strike up, Jackie,” shouted Pete.

     “Hail, Isle of Man,
     Swate ocean lan’,
          I love thy sea-girt border.”