After his triumph at Chase’s Mill, the Morgan and Evans often stopped there on their way home from work.
A welcome more cordial than usual greeted them one sweet and tranquil afternoon. Cowbells tinkled in the distance, coming home along the River Road for the milking hour, and the chains of Morgan’s harness jangled an echo from his sides. The leather parts of this harness were mended here and there with bits of white string, and his usually glossy, short hair was rough and lacked care. He was not pretty, but always bold and fearless in his style of movement.
As was his custom, Nathan Nye sat whittling his birch stick into useless shavings.
“Let the Morgan see if it’s in him to do it!” he cried to Evans.
“What’s the game to-day?” asked Evans, cheerfully.
With a backward nod and a frown Nye indicated three strangers standing in the doorway of the little shop.
“Travellers from over to Benedict’s,” he explained, in an undertone. “They heard about our horse and have come to try out against him. I’ve got a sneaking idea that we can take the starch out o’ their biled shirts for ’em!” He shut his knife with a determined click and rose. “They claim size is necessary for speed and endurance,” he went on; “they are just from The Plains of Abraham; on their way back to New York; came yesterday and hearing at the stage-house that we had something of a horse in these parts staid over to-day to satisfy their curiosity.”
“We’ll satisfy it!” laughed Evans, confidently.
Three strange horses stood hitched near by, and Evans went to take a look at them, as if casually. The Morgan followed, as a faithful dog might, extending his nostrils as he caught sight of a cloak thrown over one of the saddles. He caught the scent and blew his breath on it in a disgusted way. He had recognized the odor of the Coxcomb, Master Knickerbocker!
Nye had also followed Evans.