"No."
"It's for young Chase. It's great work."
In John Diefenbach's workroom was a numerous company of saddle admirers, sitting and lounging about in the seductive odor of new-mown leather. The saddler, happily busied among his patterns and punches and embossing-tools, turned at times and peered over the rims of his spectacles in evident satisfaction. The heavy stock saddle, its quantities of leather all richly beflowered, was mounted on a trestle beside him. It was so near completion that the long saddle-strings now hung down in pairs all round, and these thongs, being of lighter-colored leather, and sprouting out of the hearts of embossed primroses, looked quite as if they were the natural new growth of that spring—in fact the whole flourishing affair might have been expected to put on a few more layers of leather out of its own powers of luxuriance. But there was nothing superfluous about it.
"What do you think of it, Al?" asked one of the company.
Todd looked it over, the broad hair girths fore and aft, the big cinch rings and strong stirrup straps. The stirrups were missing. His eye sought the hooks and pegs over the workbench.
"Do them things go on it?" he asked, pointing an accusing finger.
Hanging on the wall was a pair of Mexican tapaderas—deep hooded stirrups with a great superfluity of leather extending below as if they were wings for the feet.
"Oh! no, no, no," said the saddler, turning hastily and holding up his hand as if to quell this mental disturbance before it had gone too far. "These go on it—these." He held out a pair of plain wooden hoops.
Todd's countenance rearranged itself at once.
"She's a jim-dandy," said Todd.