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Sure thon poor craytur iv a baste hes n't got the sthrenth fur till kerry it own hide, let alone a great gommeril on it back. An' thon's furnent ye! Hello, Tamson! begog A did n't know ye at wanst." "Good day, Mr. M'Nab. Alterations since I delivered you that wire at Poondoo. Been in the wars?" For M'Nab was leaning forward and sideways in his saddle, evidently in pain.
His gallop was like Marching Through Georgia, vigorously rendered by a good brass band. "Well?" interrogated M'Nab, as I rejoined him. "Don't you think he's a bit chest-foundered?" I asked in reply. "Divil a wan o' me knows. Mebbe he is, begog. Sure A hed n't him long enough fur till fine out." "And how much boot are you going to give me?"
"Begog, A don't want till git red iv the baste, sich as he is," replied M'Nab resentfully. "But A want thon wee shilty, an' A evened a swap till ye, fur it's a prodistaner thing nor lavin' a man on his feet, so it is." "See anything wrong with the horse, Steve?" I asked in an undertone. "Perfect to the eye," murmured Thompson. "Try him a mile, full tilt."
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