“Mum's the word,” said Thatcher. “I'll not let a soul know till you say 'Let 'er go.' O Lord! I hope the trade goes through. We want a lot more capital here.”
Mr. Thatcher began to scratch his head and to expectorate tobacco-juice copiously, and I suspected he was wondering what the secret might be that he was not to betray. So I made haste to say:
“Is this stable yours?”
“Yes, sir,” said Thatcher eagerly. “I've been running it nigh on two years now.”
“Pretty good business, eh, Dick?” said Fitzhugh, looking critically about.
“Nothin' to brag on,” said Thatcher disparagingly. “You don't make a fortune running a livery stable in these parts—times are too hard.”
And then Mr. Thatcher unbent, and between periods of vigorous mastication at his cud, introduced us to his horses and eagerly explained the advantages that his stable possessed over any other this side of Oakland.
“Very good,” I said. “We may want something in your line later. We can find you here at any time, I suppose.”
“O Lord, yes. I live here days and sleep here nights. But if you want to take a look at the property before it gets a wetting you'll have to be pretty spry.”
My suggestion of a trade had misled the worthy stableman into the impression that I was considering the purchase of real estate.