Dad put the same question to him.

Of course Joe knew Bess's foal--"the one that got stole." There was a silence.
"Now," said Dad, looking very grave, "what have y' got t' say?
Who'd y' get him off?
Show's y'r receipt." Donovan had nothing to say; he preferred to be silent.
"Then," Dad went on, "clear out of this as fast as you can go, an' think y'rself lucky." He cleared, but on foot.
Dad gazed after him, and, as he left the paddock, said: "One too many f' y' that time, Mick Donovan!" Then to Dave, who was still looking at the horse: "He's a stolen one right enough, but he's a beauty, and we'll keep him; and if the owner ever comes for him, well--if he is the owner--he can have him, that's all." We had the horse for eighteen months and more.

One day Dad rode him to town.

He was no sooner there than a man came up and claimed him.

Dad objected.