"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.
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