“I understand—you need not put the rest in words. I will ride your race, on this very horse—and you?”
“I have Silvertail with me,” he answered, and in an undertone added, “You will not have the ghost of a chance!”
If Mistress Lloyd did not hear this, Morgan did, and switched his tail with satisfaction, moving his ears to and fro, to miss nothing.
Silvertail! If horses could laugh aloud, Morgan would have laughed. He recalled a race six years before against Silvertail and it seemed almost a miracle that he should meet him again—of all the other horses in America—in so important an event.
“I am not afraid of Silvertail,” came Mistress Lloyd’s brave reply.
The Coxcomb looked at Morgan scornfully, not remembering how he, too, had been defeated by him years ago, at Chase’s Mill!
“Then ’tis settled,” he said, confidently.
“Nay, not settled!” cried the lady, with well-feigned gaiety. “We’ve yet to put the matter in writing, all in due form with the Judge to advise.” For Mistress Lloyd was no careless person, when it came to business, nor no mean reader of men.
She placed her hand for a moment under Morgan’s jaw and felt his pulses surge in response to her touch; then she drew herself erect, reassured—as if the race were already won!
They left the stable making their plans.