Rafford listened with a sympathy that was scarcely perceptible in his speech yet of which Jake was very strongly aware, or he had not so expanded. Later he marvelled himself at his own candour, but at the time it seemed wholly natural, even inevitable. By that mysterious force which makes men know each other as comrades even from afar, he recognized in Rafford the one quality that his soul demanded. Circumstance had flung them together for an hour, circumstance would part them again, but for that hour the bond of sympathy between them was complete.
In the end he remembered again the coming loss, the crushing failure of all his plans, and the bitterness came down upon him afresh, an overwhelming burden forcing him down. He fondled the colt, and with a gentle hand closed the door upon him. "Yes," he said heavily, "given fair treatment he'll turn out a winner, but I shan't be here to see it."
"What's come to Saltash?" Rafford questioned. "He seems ready to throw up everything."
"Yes, that's him," Jake said. "But then he hasn't had the working up of the Stud as I have. It's nothing to him to part with the animals. They were no more than a pastime."
"And not always a creditable pastime at that?" suggested Rafford. "I guess you're too straight for him, Mr. Bolton. He's a crooked devil--but a curiously likable one." He smiled as if at some reminiscence. "Well, what's your opinion? Do you think he could be persuaded to sell this show privately if he got a good offer?"
Jake's reserve came down upon him like a mask. "I can't say. You'd better go to his agent, Bishop."
Rafford was still faintly smiling. "I've just come from him. He practically sent me to you. I've just paid him Saltash's price for the statue. She will be on her way to America with me in a fortnight. But I'd like to bring off this deal before we go."
"It doesn't rest with me," Jake said, doggedness in every line.
"No, I know. But I'd like to feel that I've got you behind me. My patron would like to know that."
"Who is your patron?" Jake asked.