"Buy her!" he repeated scornfully. "With what? Ye've got nothin', Nal
Roberts--that is, nothin' but yer sorrel filly and a measly two, or
three mebbe, hundred dollars. I vally Mandy at twenty dollars a month.
At one per cent.--I allus git one per cent. a month--that makes two
thousand dollars. Have ye got the cold cash, Nal?"
Honest Nal hung his head.
"Not the half of it, but I earn a hundred a month at the track."
"Bring me two thousand dollars, gold coin o' the United States, no
foolin', an' I'll give ye Mandy."
"Ye mean that, Mr. Bobo?"
The old man hesitated.
"I was kind o' bluffin'," he admitted reluctantly, "but I'll stand by
my words. Bring me the cash, an' I'll give ye Mandy."
"I'll guess I'll go," said Mr. Roberts.
"Yes, Nal, ye'd better go, an' sonny, ye needn't to come back; I like
ye first rate, but ye needn't to come back!"
Rinaldo walked home to the race track, and as he walked, cursed old
man Bobo, cursed him heartily, in copious Western vernacular, from the
peaky crown of his bald head to the tip of his ill-shaped, sockless
toe. When, however, he had fed the filly and bedded her down in cool,
fresh straw, he felt easier in his mind.
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