“Finest match team anywhere,” agreed Abner Follis, plucking at his gray goatee and mouthing a straw, “an’ I make a business o’ raisin’ thoroughbreds. Cousins, they are, an’ without a blemish on ’em. An’ trot—you’d ought to see that team trot.”
“What’ll you take for them?” asked Wallingford.
The response of Abner Follis was quick and to the point. He kept a careful appraisement upon all his live stock.
“Seven hundred and fifty,” said he, naming a price that allowed ample leeway for dickering.
It was almost a disappointment to him that Wallingford produced his wallet, counted over the exact amount that had been asked, and said briefly:
“Unhitch them.”
“Well!” said Abner, slowly taking the money and throwing away his straw in petulance. It was dull and uninteresting to have a bargain concluded so quickly.
Wallingford, however, knew what he was about. Within an hour everybody in town knew of his purchase. Speculation that had been mildly active concerning him now became feverish. He was a rich nabob with money to throw away; had so much money that he would not even dicker in a horse deal—and this was the height of human recklessness in Blakeville. Wallingford, purchasing Jim Ranger’s new buggy and his best set of harness, drove to the Bubbles’, the eyed of all observers, but before he had opened the gate Mrs. Bubble was on the porch.
“Jonas ain’t at home,” she shrilled down at him.
“Yes, I know,” replied Wallingford; “but I came to see Miss Fannie.”