"Let's kill Daisy," said Hudden at last; "if that doesn't make him
clear out, nothing will."

No sooner said than agreed; and it wasn't dark before Hudden and
Dudden crept up to the little shed where lay poor Daisy, trying her
best to chew the cud, though she hadn't had as much grass in the day
as would cover your hand. And when Donald came to see if Daisy was all
snug for the night, the poor beast had only time to lick his hand once
before she died.

Well, Donald was a shrewd fellow, and, downhearted though he was,
began to think if he could get any good out of Daisy's death. He
thought and he thought, and the next day you might have seen him
trudging off early to the fair, Daisy's hide over his shoulder, every
penny he had jingling in his pockets. Just before he got to the fair,
he made several slits in the hide, put a penny in each slit, walked
into the best inn of the town as bold as if it belonged to him, and,
hanging the hide up to a nail in the wall, sat down.

"Some of your best whisky," says he to the landlord. But the landlord
didn't like his looks. "Is it fearing I won't pay you, you are?" says
Donald; "why, I have a hide here that gives me all the money I want."
And with that he hit it a whack with his stick, and out hopped a
penny. The landlord opened his eyes, as you may fancy.

"What'll you take for that hide?"

"It's not for sale, my good man."

"Will you take a gold piece?"

"It's not for sale, I tell you. Hasn't it kept me and mine for years?"
and with that Donald hit the hide 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 off 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?