“That's what you said of that horse you bought of Hampson—ran away, didn't he?” persisted his host, his eyes on the mare, which had now become quiet.
“Yes, and broke his leg. But Spitfire's all right—she'll stand. Where will I sit—here? And now what kind of a time did you have, and who were with you?”
“Clayton, Doctor Teackle, and the judge.”
“And how many ducks did you get?” and he dropped into his chair.
“Twenty-one,” answered St. George, dry-washing his white shapely hands, as he took his seat—a habit of his when greatly pleased.
“All canvas-backs?”
“No—five redheads and a mallard.”
“Where did you put up?” echoed Harry, loosening his riding-jacket to give his knife and fork freer play.
“I spent a week at Tom Coston's and a week at Craddock. Another lump of sugar, Todd.”
The boy laughed gently: “Lazy Tom's?”