The Baker, seduced by the sight of a bucket, looking wild, rough, and happy, was duly brought up, examined, trotted to and fro—and passed.
“Have him in, and ride him about quietly, Tom,” urged his adviser, “you are such a nice light weight. He looks a hunter all over—and something more; but time will tell.”
“Then you think he was a bargain?” said Helena.
“I’m sure of it,” he answered with emphasis, “sound—up to weight—rising seven—and uncommonly good-looking. Look here, Miss Mahon, if you are inclined to sell I’ll give you sixty pounds for him just as he stands—without his shoes.”
“Sixty pounds! No, no, I don’t want to sell him or rob you,” she answered, “and he will be something for Tom to ride—he hates a bike—and the black looks such a gentleman.”
“He is, I’ll bet. I suppose you don’t know his pedigree?”
“No, I’m afraid we can’t trace that beyond the bread-cart.”
“I shall always take an interest in your horse, Miss Mahon, and Tom, my advice to you is, bring him in at once.”
“Come over and see how he turns out.”
“I’m sure the poor Baker will be sorry we happened to notice him to-day,” said Helena, “and took him away from the nice short grass and bog—and his two dear donkeys.”