A couple of days after this, Angus, coming around Chief's quarters from the rear, overheard Dorgan earnestly assuring Kathleen French that Chief was quarantined for threatened influenza; and further that he was a saddle horse, pure and simple, with no more speed than a cow. With a glance at Angus which was intended to convey grave warning, he beat a retreat.
"Who is the remarkable liar?" Kathleen asked.
"Is he that? His name is Pete Dorgan."
"If you have a deadline on the place you ought to put up a sign," she told him. "How did I know I was butting in?"
"How do you know it now?"
"Because I have average intelligence. I didn't know there was a horse here at all. I was looking for Jean, and when I saw a perfectly splendid, strange animal, naturally I stopped to look at him. I also saw a little, flat pigskin saddle, and I saw that the horse was wearing plates. Then this Dorgan appeared and lied straight ahead without the least provocation, looking me in the face without the quiver of an eyelash. I didn't ask him a single question, I give you my word.
"There's no special reason why you shouldn't. The horse isn't mine. But the fact is, his owner and Dorgan aren't saying anything about him."
"Angus! he isn't—but no, of course he isn't!"
"Isn't what?"
"A ringer. I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't go into anything like that if you knew it."