“Tell me whether that is not Mignon's 'mari.' What sort of a man is he?”
“Mignon's what? Oh—Manager Scott. He isn't married, further than that he's liable to rows on account of Mignon, who—has a face to upset things as you justly observe, not to speak of a disposition according. At least, I don't know but what they may be married. If they are, they're liable to perpetuate more rows than anything else.”
“'Does something smack, something grow to, has a kind of taste?”'
“Eh?” said Cassidy, inquiringly.
Sanderson, standing silently by, as silently turned and walked toward the crowd drifting back and forth in front of the stables. Portly Judge Carter of Gilead, beaming through gold-rimmed glasses, side-whiskered and rubicund, stopped him to remark tremendously that he had issued an injunction against the stallion going out of the state. “A matter of local patriotism, Joe, eh?”
“Hear, hear,” commented the Honorable Gerald Map. A crowd began to gather anticipating a conference of notables. Sanderson extricated himself and walked on, and two small boys eventually smacked each other over the question whether Judge Carter was as great a man as Mr. Sanderson.
Mavering's eyes followed him speculatively.
“What's the particular combination that troubles the manager's rest?”
“Eh?” said Cassidy. “Oh, I don't know. Bob Sutton mostly. He's here somewhere. Swell young fellow in a plush vest, fashionable proprietor of thread mills.”
The yellow, dusty road ran between the stables and a battle line of sycamores and maples. Over the stables loomed the brick wall of the theatre, and at the end of them a small green door for the private use of exhibitors gave exit from the Fair Grounds. Sanderson stopped near a group opposite it, where Mignon stood slapping her riding-boot with her whip.