“I don't,” said the Colonel fiercely. “Here he comes now. I wish you'd look at that!”
A headlong young man in model riding costume, astride a bob-tailed sorrel, rashly took a fence where gate there was none, and came cantering across the Colonel's favorite stretch of blue grass.
“Awfully sorry to have cut across, Colonel!” he called out in tones that spoke little contrition. “Slipped my trolley as usual and got lost in the bullrushes. Hope I haven't kept Miss Lady waiting?”
The Colonel rose and extended a hand of welcome. A true Kentuckian may commit murder and still be a gentleman, but to fail in hospitality is to forfeit even his own self-respect.
“My daughter, Mr. Morley, will be out presently,” he announced with great formality.
“And how are you, Mike?” went on young Morley, stooping to pat the dog; “didn't mean to cut you, old fellow, 'pon my word I didn't.”
The dog, a shaggy beast, with small, plaintive eyes looking out from a fringe of wiry hair, expressed his appreciation of this attention with all the emotion a stump of tail would permit.
“It's a bully day!” continued the visitor with enthusiasm, wiping his wrists and forehead, and tossing his hair back. “If I weren't going to town to-night I'd ask you to take me fishing, Colonel. Hello! What kind of a reel is that?”
Now the article which had attracted attention happened to be an invention of the Colonel's, something he had been working on for a long time, so he could not resist explaining its unique qualities.
“Well, I'll be hanged!” said Morley, turning it over and over admiringly. “If that isn't the cleverest thing I ever saw. This little screw regulates the slack, doesn't it? Does your legal mind get on to that, Wick?”