another whack and out
jumped a second penny.
Well, the long and the short of it was that Donald let the hide go,
and, that very evening, who but he should walk up to Hudden's door?
"Good-evening, Hudden. Will you lend me your best pair of scales?"
Hudden stared and Hudden scratched his head, but he lent the scales.
When Donald was safe at home, he pulled out his pocketful of bright
gold and began to weigh each piece in the scales. But Hudden had put
a lump of butter at the bottom, and so the last piece of gold stuck
fast to the scales when he took them back to Hudden.
If Hudden had stared before, he stared ten times more now, and no
sooner was Donald's back turned, than he was of as hard as he could
pelt to Dudden's.
"Good-evening, Dudden. That vagabond, bad luck to him—"
"You mean Donald O'Neary?"
"And who else should I mean? He's back here weighing out sackfuls of
gold."
"How do you know that?"
"Here are my scales that he borrowed, and here's a gold piece still
sticking to them."
Off they went together, and they came to Donald's door. Donald had
finished making the last pile of ten gold pieces. And he couldn't
finish because a piece had stuck to the scales.
In they walked without an "If you please" or "By your leave."
"Well,
I
never!" that was all
they
could say.
"Good-evening, Hudden; good-evening, Dudden. Ah! you thought you had
played me a fine trick, but you never did me a better turn in all
your lives. When I found poor Daisy dead, I thought to myself,
'Well, her hide may fetch something;' and it did. Hides are worth
their weight in gold in the market just now."
Hudden nudged Dudden, and Dudden winked at Hudden.
"Good-evening, Donald O'Neary."
"Good-evening, kind friends."
The next day there wasn't a cow or a calf that belonged to Hudden or
Dudden but her hide was going to the fair in Hudden's biggest cart
drawn by Dudden's strongest pair of horses.
When they came to the fair, each one took a hide over his arm, and
there they were walking through the fair, bawling out at the top of
their voices: "Hides to sell! hides to sell!"
Out came the tanner:
"How much for your hides, my good men?"
"Their weight in gold."
"It's early in the day to come out of the tavern."
That was all the tanner said, and back he went to his yard.
"Hides to sell! Fine fresh hides to sell!"
Out came the cobbler.
"How much for your hides, my men?"
"Their weight in gold."
"Is it making game of me you are! Take that for your pains," and the
cobbler dealt Hudden a blow that made him stagger.
Up the people came running from one end of the fair to the other.
"What's the matter? What's the matter?" cried they.
"Here are a couple of vagabonds selling hides at their weight in
gold," said the cobbler.
"Hold 'em fast; hold 'em fast!" bawled the innkeeper, who was the
last to come up, he was so fat. "I'll wager it's one of the rogues
who tricked me out of thirty gold pieces yesterday for a wretched
hide."
It was more kicks than halfpence that Hudden and Dudden got before
they were well on their way home again, and they didn't run the
slower because all the dogs of the town were at their heels.
Well, as you may fancy, if they loved Donald little before, they
loved him less now.
"What's the matter, friends?" said he, as he saw them tearing along,
their hats knocked in, and their coats torn off, and their faces
black and blue. "Is it fighting you've been? or mayhap you met the
police, ill luck to them?"
"We'll police you, you vagabond. It's mighty smart you thought
yourself, deluding us with your lying tales."
"Who deluded you? Didn't you see the gold with your own two eyes?"
But it was no use talking. Pay for it he must, and should. There was
a meal-sack handy, and into it Hudden and Dudden popped Donald
O'Neary, tied him up tight, ran a pole through the knot, and off
they started for the Brown Lake of the Bog, each with a pole-end on
his shoulder, and Donald O'Neary between.
But the Brown Lake was far, the road was dusty,
jumped a second penny.
Well, the long and the short of it was that Donald let the hide go,
and, that very evening, who but he should walk up to Hudden's door?
"Good-evening, Hudden. Will you lend me your best pair of scales?"
Hudden stared and Hudden scratched his head, but he lent the scales.
When Donald was safe at home, he pulled out his pocketful of bright
gold and began to weigh each piece in the scales. But Hudden had put
a lump of butter at the bottom, and so the last piece of gold stuck
fast to the scales when he took them back to Hudden.
If Hudden had stared before, he stared ten times more now, and no
sooner was Donald's back turned, than he was of as hard as he could
pelt to Dudden's.
"Good-evening, Dudden. That vagabond, bad luck to him—"
"You mean Donald O'Neary?"
"And who else should I mean? He's back here weighing out sackfuls of
gold."
"How do you know that?"
"Here are my scales that he borrowed, and here's a gold piece still
sticking to them."
Off they went together, and they came to Donald's door. Donald had
finished making the last pile of ten gold pieces. And he couldn't
finish because a piece had stuck to the scales.
In they walked without an "If you please" or "By your leave."
"Well,
I
never!" that was all
they
could say.
"Good-evening, Hudden; good-evening, Dudden. Ah! you thought you had
played me a fine trick, but you never did me a better turn in all
your lives. When I found poor Daisy dead, I thought to myself,
'Well, her hide may fetch something;' and it did. Hides are worth
their weight in gold in the market just now."
Hudden nudged Dudden, and Dudden winked at Hudden.
"Good-evening, Donald O'Neary."
"Good-evening, kind friends."
The next day there wasn't a cow or a calf that belonged to Hudden or
Dudden but her hide was going to the fair in Hudden's biggest cart
drawn by Dudden's strongest pair of horses.
When they came to the fair, each one took a hide over his arm, and
there they were walking through the fair, bawling out at the top of
their voices: "Hides to sell! hides to sell!"
Out came the tanner:
"How much for your hides, my good men?"
"Their weight in gold."
"It's early in the day to come out of the tavern."
That was all the tanner said, and back he went to his yard.
"Hides to sell! Fine fresh hides to sell!"
Out came the cobbler.
"How much for your hides, my men?"
"Their weight in gold."
"Is it making game of me you are! Take that for your pains," and the
cobbler dealt Hudden a blow that made him stagger.
Up the people came running from one end of the fair to the other.
"What's the matter? What's the matter?" cried they.
"Here are a couple of vagabonds selling hides at their weight in
gold," said the cobbler.
"Hold 'em fast; hold 'em fast!" bawled the innkeeper, who was the
last to come up, he was so fat. "I'll wager it's one of the rogues
who tricked me out of thirty gold pieces yesterday for a wretched
hide."
It was more kicks than halfpence that Hudden and Dudden got before
they were well on their way home again, and they didn't run the
slower because all the dogs of the town were at their heels.
Well, as you may fancy, if they loved Donald little before, they
loved him less now.
"What's the matter, friends?" said he, as he saw them tearing along,
their hats knocked in, and their coats torn off, and their faces
black and blue. "Is it fighting you've been? or mayhap you met the
police, ill luck to them?"
"We'll police you, you vagabond. It's mighty smart you thought
yourself, deluding us with your lying tales."
"Who deluded you? Didn't you see the gold with your own two eyes?"
But it was no use talking. Pay for it he must, and should. There was
a meal-sack handy, and into it Hudden and Dudden popped Donald
O'Neary, tied him up tight, ran a pole through the knot, and off
they started for the Brown Lake of the Bog, each with a pole-end on
his shoulder, and Donald O'Neary between.
But the Brown Lake was far, the road was dusty,
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