"
He trifled with the big beautiful buttons on the head-stall. "The sulky's
as good as new, and so's the harness almost; and there's the nose-bag and
the blankets, and a saddle and a monkey-wrench and two bottles of
horse-liniment, and odds and ends. I only paid that"--and he held up his
fingers again as though it was a sacred rite--"for the lot. Not bad, I
want to say. Isn't he good for all day, this one?"
The old man nodded, then turned towards the bridge. "The
gun-shots--what?" he asked, setting forward at a walk which taxed the
rawbone's stride.
"An invite--come to the wedding; that's all. Only it's a funeral this
time, and, if something good doesn't happen, there'll be more than one
funeral on the Sagalac to-morrow. I've had my try, but I dunno how it'll
come out. He's not a man of much dictionary is the Monseenoor."
"The Monseigneur Lourde? What does he say?"
"He says what we all say, that he is sorry. 'But why have the Orange
funeral while things are as they are?' he says, and he asks for the red
flag not to be shook in the face of the bull."
"That is not the talk of a fool, as most priests are," growled the other.
"Sure. But it wants a real wind-warbler to make them see it in Lebanon.
They've got the needle.
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