"The shrewd dog!" said he; "as long as I kept at work, he was too conscientious to touch my coat; but the moment I stopped to pick berries, he thought he would teach me a lesson."
"I am sorry,—sorry!" exclaimed the mortified farmer.
"Oh, it is not a great loss! It will not ruin me. I think I shall recover from the damage. Bad work he made with it, didn't he?" laughed the old man, holding up the wreck of cloth. "It is fortunate I did not wear my best coat out here. It isn't so bad as if I had not another to my back. You have no more colts over in the cornfield, to take as good care of my vest, I trust?"
As the men looked in the direction of the vest, they saw Mark Wheeler, the jockey, coming towards them, across the lot. He was walking very fast, and passion contracted his features.
"Mr. Royden," said he, with forced calmness, "are you pretty busy just now?"
"You see I am holding my own with these hearty young men," replied the farmer.
"I'll work for you enough to make up for lost time," said Mark, "if you will go over and look at my new horse."
"What is the matter with him?"
"He has hurt his eye."
"Hurt his eye? How?" asked Mr. Royden.