The aimless chatter died away into amazed silence. Shanghai, the hostler, appeared at the head of the chute leading a large, coal-black horse.
"Well, for Heaven's sake!" muttered the Kid, moving nearer the fence, his eyes glued on the black stranger. "Where did you pick up that fellow?... One white forefoot. H-m-m!... Say, you don't mean to tell me this is Fairfax?"
Old Man Curry nodded.
"Fairfax!" ejaculated the Bald-faced Kid disgustedly. "Well, how in the name of all that is good, great, and wise did you get that crowbait wished on you?"
Old Man Curry threw away his straw and reached for his packet of fine cut, a sure sign that he was about to unburden himself.
"He wa'n't wished on me, Frank. Jimmy Miles was stuck with a feed bill, and at the last minute, just as I was loadin' my hosses, he——"
"He stuck you with that," finished the Kid, pointing at the black horse.
"Well, I dunno's I'd say stuck," remarked Old Man Curry, looking critically at Fairfax. "Jimmy sold him to me for next to nothing."
"And you can bet he didn't misrepresent the goods any!" said the Kid. "That's exactly what Fairfax is—next to nothing. He's so near nothing that a lot of folks can't tell the difference. If you said to me: 'This is a black horse named Fairfax and that over there is nothing,' I couldn't tell which was which. Old-timer, you're in bad."
"Mebbe I am." Old Man Curry's tone was apologetic and conciliating in the extreme. "Mebbe I am. You ought to know 'bout hosses, Frank. You most gener'ly do."