“Twelve thousand, not a real more.”

“Antes muerto que cansado!” (He’d die sooner than tire.)

“Twelve thousand, not another maravedi.” The bargain was finally struck, chalan and caballero going off together to bind it.

“The pace of these Andalusian horses,” Pemberton pointed out, “is easy as a rocking-chair; there is nothing like it. It comes from their galloping with the fore feet and trotting with the hind. Arabian blood? Ah! there is the mystery of the Cordova breed. Where did they get it? De Soto took out a lot of the stock to America; they ran wild on the western plains: our bronchos are their descendants. Though the build has changed, you recognize the family traits in the American mustang.{118}”

The white, a beautiful fiery creature, with floss-silk mane hanging to his knees, a tail that would have swept the ground had it not been knotted up, Patsy was convinced must be an Arabian.

“He looks it,” Pemberton “allowed.” “The Arab horse, unfortunately, is not what it once was; it has been spoiled—by what, do you think? The Mauser rifle! In the old days a Bedouin’s safety depended on his horse’s speed; to outride his enemy and the reach of his enemy’s spear was his prime need. Then it was a matter of life and death to keep up the breed. The old order changeth, even in the desert. Now, the Bedouins are armed with rifles; no horse can travel as fast as a rifle bullet flies; the Bedouin grows careless, his horse deteriorates. In England, where they’re all mad, there’s one man mad, or sane enough, to put his heart and his money into trying to save the noble race from extinction, the sort of a thing only a poet like Wilfred Blunt would try to do.”

“Tres, ocho, todos,” from behind a gypsy tent came the staccato cry 대전오피 of the morra players. Two men faced each other, throwing out the hand with a quick movement, each crying at the same moment his guess of the total number of fingers shown; a dangerous old game, ending, too often, in a fight.

There was great animation in the pig market;{119} the prices were the highest in years; the demand for sucking pigs was larger than the supply. A magnificent old Mother Grunt, with a litter of black piglets snuggling about her, wore the blue ribbon of the prize winner round her fat neck. The owner, a well-dressed young farmer, stood beside the likely family.

“May I have a photograph of the pig?” I asked.

“The honor is great,” said the farmer, “but the photographer lives far from here, and to-morrow I put the earth between us.”

“How foolish thou art!” explained a shrewd old farmer, carrying a white lamb in his arms. “It is the little black box of the stranger lady that makes the picture.” They all struck attitudes, the kodak snapped, I set the film for the next shot; the farmer wished to look into the kodak where he thought he could see the photograph of the prize pig. The matter was explained to him, and the offer made to send him a photograph when the film should be developed. J. handed him his pencil and note-book, and asked him to write his name and address.