Polly and Matt continued their walk in silence until they reached the dining-room. They found Scott sitting as they had left him, smoking and thinking; while, through the hole in the wall, Mrs. Van Zandt could be seen and heard busy with the dishes.
“Well, did His Nobs enjoy his tea?” asked Scott.
“He did that! Kicked into it like a little man,” replied Matt, cheerfully. “Also he made the young lady a real sporting proposition.”
“What?”
“Oh, don’t be absurd!” snapped Polly, disgustedly. “Anybody’d suppose you were college boys at thé dansant.” And she went into the kitchen.
“Well, you see what you get, Matt; you would horn in. What do you mean—a sporting proposition?”
“Oh, a rich one. Buried treasure up in New Mexico—secret chart handed down to Juan Pachuca by a maiden aunt—I don’t know what all—just to get the key of the office, but she was too sharp for him.”
“I should hope so. Is that Hard?” Scott went to the window as the sound of hoof-beats was heard. Down the street came a man on horseback. Silhouetted against the moonlight, the tall Bostonian acquired a picturesqueness lacking in daylight. “I’ve got to take Hard out one of these days and teach him how to ride,” remarked Scott, meditatively. “Jolt some of that Boston stiffness out of him.”
“You can’t,” replied the Irishman, placidly. “It’s in his blood. His ancestors brought it over in the Mayflower with ’em from England. I’ll bet you Paul Revere rode just like Hard does.”
“Shucks, Matt, those English guys can ride—stands to reason they can. Look at the cross-country stuff they do! And on an English saddle at that.”