Mr. Todd arose.
“He must be a great chap,” he said carelessly. “Well, so long. Hope you’ll treat him better’n you have me.”
Mr. Todd did not turn around to glimpse David seating himself in the vacant place at the girl’s side. He was whistling softly to himself as he wandered idly about the enclosure below where the last bets were being registered. The interest in the free-for-all race appeared to be rather languid; but he looked over the entries carefully; then fell into a desultory conversation regarding the event with the gate-keeper.
“‘Tain’t a-goin’ to be much of a race; never is,” opined that individual sagely. “The’s a lot o’ Rubes that like to speed their horses ’round the course; but it’s gen’ally a walkover fer one hoss. Bud Hawley’s drivin’ the winner t’-day.”
“No, he ain’t,” interrupted a raucous voice from the rear. “Bud Hawley’s a-goin’ t’ git left this time.”
“That so?” queried Mr. Todd. “Who’s goin’ to win?”
“I be,” said the owner of the voice. “Say, I’ve seen you somewheres b’fore, ain’t I?”
“W’y, yes,” agreed Mr. Todd cordially. “But your name’s gone from me just now. Let me see——”
“I know now who you be,” put in the farmer. “You’re the fellow ’at come int’ Hewett’s grocery a spell back one day when I was there. My name’s Plumb—Hiram Plumb.”