"Wind? Good. Why?"
"No cold—no stoppage of the nostrils?"
"No. What you gettin' at?"
"Listen to his breathing. There's something about it—not clear—a little, straining wheeze——"
Eyes narrowing, vibrant with quick suspicion, Dorgan took the horse's head on his shoulder and leaned his ear to the nostrils, listening intently. Suddenly he swore, a single, tremendous expletive, deep with venom, turning on Rennie.
"Did you go to see that fight you was speakin' of?"
"Sure. But I wasn't away five minutes."
"Was the horse uneasy before that?"
"I didn't notice it till I come back," Rennie admitted, and Dorgan swore again.
"They got to us somehow. Wait now. Hold still, Chief. So—o, lad! Quiet, boy!" Gently he laid his face against the muzzle. "By——, it's sponges!" he exclaimed suddenly.