This not being in the form of a question, Noah conserved his energies.
“Don't amount to a hill of beans, I'll warrant,” continued the Colonel, with a watchful eye on Noah for denial or confirmation, but Noah was noncommittal. “When a fellow gets to be twenty-three years old and can't find anything better to do than to run around the country spending his money, and playing with the girls, there's a screw loose somewhere. What does he know about stock-farming?”
“Says he's been reading up.”
“Fiddlesticks!” roared the Colonel. “You can't learn farming out of a book! What does he know about horses?”
“Oh! He's on to horses all right,” Noah grinned ambiguously. “You and I couldn't teach him anything about horses.”
“Can he shoot?”
“Can't hit a barn door.”
The Colonel heaved a deep sigh, drained the last drops from his tumbler, then leaned forward, confidentially:
“Noah Wicker, do you like that young chap?”
“Like him?” Noah looked up in surprise. “Why, everybody likes Don Morley.”